


Bad Luck

by sternenblumen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Period-Typical Racism, Slavery, Whipping, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-10-31 14:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17851163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: Porthos rarely had bad luck at the card table.But when he hit a streak of really bad luck, it was only the beginning ...Soon, the other three Inseparables were desperately searching for their missing friend while he did his best to get back to them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this story! I kinda didn't want to post it because it's not yet finished and WIPs make me nervous but I also really wanted to start posting it, so ... Well, here we are :).
> 
> I hope you enjoy - let me know what you think!

“Hey, you!”

Porthos groaned as the voice addressing him bounced around inside his head. A vice had clamped around his forehead, and he peeled apart his eyelids carefully, squinting even in the low light coming from a few candles. No, torches, he mentally corrected himself and frowned while allowing his eyes to fall shut again. Where was he?

“Looks like you were right, he got a hard head.”

Who was speaking? And what had happened? Porthos' frown deepened. He couldn't remember he'd had such an awful hangover but he hadn't been that drunk, had he? True, he had been deep in his cups, trying to alleviate the sting of an extremely bad evening at the card table that not even all his cheating skills had been able to salvage. It hadn't helped but only underscored how light his purse felt, requiring either another evening with more luck or some careful rationing until his next pay came in … He forced his thoughts back to the point he was trying to make to his pounding head, namely that no matter how much drink he had had, this level of pain was clearly not appropriate.

A boot nudged him in the side. “C'mon, you. I can see you're awake.”

“Let him be, we still have an hour or two to go. No need to deal with him before then, and I'm sure he'll be trouble enough once we have to move him. Look at the size o' him.”

“True, but it'll be worth it,” the first voice answered, accompanied by footsteps moving away from him.

Porthos steeled himself and opened his eyes again to slits. This time around, the light was more bearable, and he could make out some things – mostly the shapes of two men standing opposite from him across a narrow room. The room itself seemed to move lightly which did absolutely no favours to the nausea building in Porthos' gut. Or was it just the dizziness of his hangover making him think that the room was swaying slightly?

“Who're you?” he finally managed to grate out, his voice a rough rasp.

One of the men turned around and grinned at him. It was not a nice grin. “I don't think that is of any consequence to you,” he replied, “but I'm glad you're awake and seemingly in possession of your mental faculties. Such as they are.” He turned back to his companion and added: “After all, we wouldn't want to anger the boss by bringing him damaged merchandise.

Porthos wanted to reply but before his sluggish mind could come up with what to say, his eyes fell to his wrists, and a chill ran through him, down to his very soul.

Shackles. He had been bound in irons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later chapters will be longer, for now, it's just a bit of setup :). I've got a bunch written, so I'll continue it fairly regularly, I hope.
> 
> Remember, comments (and kudos and so on) are love!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile ...

“Good morning!”

d'Artagnan looked up from his oatmeal bowl to grin at his friend as Aramis plopped down on the bench opposite him. “Good morning!” he returned, spooning another bite into his mouth.

“Athos and Porthos?” Aramis inquired while he snagged an apple from Serge's breakfast offerings.

d'Artagnan shrugged, chewed and finally replied: “Not here yet. It's still some time to muster.”

Aramis nodded, biting into the apple noisily. “Right; better enjoy every moment until Porthos gets here, then, in case Lady Luck did not change her mind yesterday,” he said with a smirk. A raised eyebrow and a “Huh?” from his companion caused him to elaborate: “He was losing. Badly.”

A second eyebrow joined d'Artagnan's first, indicating that he did not find this explanation entirely satisfactory, and Aramis huffed self-deprecatingly. “Right, I think you haven't had the pleasure since joining us.” His eyes went to d'Artagnan's pauldron, still shiny and new.

d'Artagnan grinned but was still waiting expectantly, so Aramis continued: “Porthos is a good card player, you know that. And he's a good cheat, too, right?” d'Artagnan rolled his eyes as if he had just told him that water was wet. “He loses sometimes but usually not much. But still, once in a while, he hits a streak of very bad luck. And let's just say, after that, he's a bit … unpleasant to be around.” He mock-shuddered. “A bear with a sore tooth is pleasant company compared to Porthos after losing badly.”

The young swordsman huffed a small laugh. “I've seen Porthos in a bad mood before,” he said but Aramis shook his head. “Worse?” d'Artagnan's voice told of his disbelief even as the older man nodded. “Great, then I better pray there will be no hand-to-hand training today,” he muttered.

“Gentlemen,” a new voice joined them, followed by its owner. “Good morning.”

“Morning, Athos,” Aramis replied, turning and checking. Athos looked his usual self, slightly red-eyed but calm. Not too bad a night, then. d'Artagnan echoes his greeting and got off the bench as a wave went through the Musketeers in the courtyard, aimless milling around turning into straightening up and stepping into lines, and there were the unmistakable steps of their Captain coming down the stairs. Aramis frowned. Even if he'd had bad luck and had tried drowning his frustration in wine, Porthos usually still managed to make muster. Looking at Athos, he could see some of the same thoughts in his eyes and mouthed “bad luck” at him as they and d'Artagnan stepped into line, standing at attention as Tréville passed through his men, making a comment here and there. He stopped in front of the three of them and frowned, the sharp blue eyes searching as if it was possible that Porthos could be hiding behind them. He directed his gaze at Athos, and their leader gave him a shrug and a tilt of his head, indicating that he knew about as much as the Captain.

Tréville sighed. “Right,” he murmured and returned to the stairs to hand out the orders for the day. They were kept at the garrison – Aramis briefly wondered if that had been the plan or if Tréville had changed their assignment since they were a man sort – and as the others dispersed, the three of them turned to each other.

“Bad luck?” Athos asked, one eyebrow raised. Aramis nodded. “Really bad. At least he had at the time I left. Still, he should be here.” They exchanged glances, Athos still his calm, controlled self despite a trace of worry in his eyes, Aramis definitely showing some nerves, while d'Artagnan was slightly unsure but picking up the older men's mood.

“Alright, go check his room. I think Le Main and Maçon were on night watch, d'Artagnan and I will find out if they've seen him,” Athos decided, clasping his hat back on his head and striding off, d'Artagnan trailing dutifully behind. The two night guards probably wouldn't appreciate being awoken just after coming off duty, but needs must, Aramis thought. Checking Porthos' room was quick work; it was empty, the bed obviously undisturbed since the day before, and Aramis' worry quickened and stirred. He was at their table again far too soon and found himself watching the entrance to the courtyard as if he could make Porthos walk into the garrison by sheer force of will. But by the time Athos and d'Artagnan joined him again, there was still no trace of their friend, and one glance at them told him what they had found, or rather, not found.

“So, he didn't come back to the garrison,” d'Artagnan said out loud, confirming his guess and what his friends must have seen in Aramis' expression as well so they didn't even bother to ask. “What now? Check the tavern where you've seen him last, Aramis?”

“Later,” Athos replied. “We have duties to get to, my friends. Hopefully, Porthos will get back here once he's done sulking about his bad luck until we're done for the day.”

Aramis nodded reluctantly. He knew Athos was right – Porthos was a grown man, a Musketeer, and he could look after himself. But he could not shake the feeling of dread that had settled in his belly.

What if Porthos' bad luck had turned into something worse?


	3. Chapter 3

“You can't do that.”

His captor leaned his shoulder against the wall, looking down on him with a mixture of boredom and amusement. “You'll find I can.”

“I'm a free man,” Porthos insisted, trying to ignore how the cold bite of iron and the rattle of the chains made him feel weak, made him recall every story about the slave ships and the colonies travelling the streets of the Court of Miracles. They had not been only for Charon and his ears, everyone of them knew that as the weakest of society, they all were vulnerable, but the sideways looks had always been there, the knowledge that all too easily someone could look at them and decide they had to be escaped slaves.

“You keep telling yourself that,” the man said with an eye roll.

“I'm a Musketeer. You've seen my pauldron. I'm with the King's Guard.” Porthos did not give up. He could not. His pauldron was gone now, as was his doublet, as were his weapons. He held onto the feeling of his pauldron on his shoulder, the way his sword fit into his hand, to push back the terrible reality of them being gone and the chains that had taken their place.

The man shrugged. “All I see is a negro. Do they really allow your kind in the King's Guard? I find that hard to believe.” He pushed himself off the wall and sauntered over, dropping into a crouch in front of Porthos, though he was careful to stay an arm's length away. “No matter. You're mine now, and no one will miss you.”

Porthos growled and lunged forwards, but the chains snapped taut, bringing him to the ground. “You're wrong,” he spat, struggling to get his hands on the man. “I'm a free man, and my friends will be lookin' for me. I belong to no one but myself!”

“Oh dear,” the man sighed as he stepped back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Looks like you need some help to accept your situation. Well, that can be arranged.” He moved away but not before throwing a nasty smirk at him over his shoulder. “Don't go anywhere.” Laughing at his own joke, he disappeared through the room's only door.

Porthos slumped back against the wall behind him and breathed deeply, tried to push past rage and fear. What could he do? He did not have anything to pick the locks on the manacles and chains. No weapons. He did not know where he was. The only positive thing was that his headache had receded, and he was no longer dizzy. The slight swaying motion of the room had not ceased, though, and that, along with what he believed to be a slight curve to the opposite wall, was the only clue he had to his whereabouts. It was not encouraging, though. He had to be on a ship.

The door opened again and admitted the man from before and two others. They strolled over to him, and the apparent leader smiled at his companions. “After you've finished, take him below,” he commanded. “Maybe seeing he isn't the only one will make it penetrate his thick skull.”

The other two, large, muscular men that rivalled his own height, nodded and stepped forward, grabbing his arms and pulling him to his feet. Porthos struggled and fought but the chains, barely the length of his forearm between his wrists and ankles, hampered him, and they kept hold of him, turning him around and pulling his hands up until one of them could fasten the chain to a hook in the wall above his head. With a slash of a knife, its tip trailing a line of fire down his back, his shirt split open and was pulled away from his back. And then he heard a sound that turned this nightmare into hell.

The snap of a whip.

Porthos roared and redoubled his efforts, but the chains and the hook held. One of the men delivered a blow to his head that left him dizzy.

Then the whip bit into the bare skin of his back, and all he could do was clamp down on the sounds of pain threatening to escape him. They might beat him and chain him but they would not break him.

He was not a slave. He was a Musketeer.


	4. Chapter 4

The day felt endless.

Athos did not say anything, but he went easy on Aramis when he failed to defend against the simplest of attacks as they sparred. If he had not, Aramis was sure he would have been on his back in two breaths. Tréville ordered them to take out the unused horses to give them some exercise, and he felt lucky not to be thrown off. Even d'Artagnan who usually rode as if the horse was an extension of his own body was infected by his unrest and had trouble handling the spirited mare he was riding. Athos seemed less affected, but when they returned to the garrison at mid-day, he caught the older man's gaze searching the courtyard, his spine stiff, and his shoulders slumped with thinly veiled disappointment as the man he was looking for was nowhere to be seen. They all looked up to Tréville on the balcony, and the Captain shook his head – Porthos had not turned up in the meantime.

The afternoon felt even more interminable which was not true since Tréville could no longer bear it two hours past the mid-day meal. “Athos!” he called down to the three of them. “Go and find him. And tell him he's in a lot of trouble if I don't see him tomorrow at muster!”

“Thank you, Captain!” Athos called back and tilted his head at the other two. “Come on, then.”

Aramis sighed and put aside the musket he had been ineffectively cleaning for the last half hour. “Finally.”

d'Artagnan stood, brushing off his breeches. “Where do we start?” he asked. “The tavern?”

“I guess that's our best bet,” the marksman agreed.

Athos nodded. “Then let's go find our brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope these chapters are not too short but I want to keep up with all of the boys, so alternating the POVs seems to be the best way. (Also, I've been writing this story longhand in a notebook, and it always surprises me how short the scenes turn out once I've typed them up.)


	5. Chapter 5

Unconsciousness was a murky darkness that held him fast, and it took all of Porthos' strength to withdraw from its grip as his eyelids fluttered open. It was dark, and for a moment, he was not sure if he had actually managed to lift them until the blackness slowly dissolved into shades of grey. He was lying on his side, his cheek pressed into a thin layer of hay, and bit by bit, he became aware of the weight of the manacles still binding his hands and feet and the sharp, fiery burn spreading all over his back. He tried to sit up but had barely raised more than his head when the pain intensified, and he had to bite back a whimper.

“Careful, big man,” a voice said next to him, “they got you good.”

Porthos turned his head to the man speaking. In the dark room, white teeth and eyes were glowing in a dark face, a slender build, and for a moment, Porthos saw someone else sitting there. He blinked, and the face became clearer – the man was unfamiliar, dark-skinned, and he was also chained. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a pained groan.

“I know,” the stranger said. “Let me help you.” He awkwardly helped Porthos sit up, both of them hampered by the chains, but his hands were gentle. “Better?” the other man asked once Porthos was upright, resting one shoulder against the wooden wall. The big Musketeer raised a trembling hand to his face to wipe away the sweat that had broken out at the small exertion and nodded. “Thanks,” he breathed.

The stranger just smiled, settling back against the wall as Porthos' breathing slowly returned to normal. Finally, he raised his head and looked around the room – it was small, the floor was covered in hay, and the only light source was a small window high in the wall letting in a pale, watery light. There were several dark lumps along the wall opposite to them that, on a closer look, were men, sleeping, chains trailing between them like silvery snakes. “Where is this place?” he asked when he had finished his inspection.

The other man grimaced. “I don't know,” he replied, “but most likely on the Seine. Somewhere about a day's distance from Paris. We're on a ship, that's about all I know.”

Porthos tried hard to swallow down the sinking feeling in his gut. He had been right about the ship, then. Ships were harder to track than wagons or riders, leaving little trace of their passage between ports. One day from Paris – he was sure his brothers were looking for him by now, they knew he wouldn't just not turn up for duty without at least sending word if he was able to. But would they even find out that he wasn't in Paris any longer?

“They alive?” he asked with a gesture towards the men on the side opposite them. He hadn't seen any of them move yet.

The stranger shrugged. “Mostly.” He nodded his chin towards one bundle in the far corner of the room. “I'm not sure about him. They beat him badly, and he didn't look to be as strong as you, big man.”

Porthos nodded absently. “Porthos,” he offered, and then, because it was important: “Porthos du Vallon.” His name, though of his own choosing, taken when he believed that it would help him in this new life he was fighting to build, was a good name, known and respected by his brothers-in-arms, his regiment and even at the King's Court, and as much his own as everything he had gained since leaving the Court of Miracles. In the absence of his pauldron, his weapons, he had to hold on tight to everything he had to fight against the feeling of powerlessness threatening to choke him.

“Porthos,” the man repeated. “I'd say 'Well met', but why lie? I'm Fadil.” He smiled wryly.

The foreign name caught Porthos' attention, and he thought he could detect a hint of an accent. “You're a Moor?” he asked.

Fadil nodded. “Good guess,” he replied.

“So you're from Spain? Been in France long?”

“Five years.” At Porthos' curiously raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “We spent some time here and there before we made our way to Paris but my family and I decided to try and stay. We didn't feel called to leave this continent behind like many of our brothers and sisters.”

“And it landed you here,” Porthos mused. “I'm sorry. Seems I'm not the only one with bad luck around here.”

Fadil snorted. “You could say so,” he agreed.

Porthos let his head fall back against the wall and breathed. “Yeah, well,” he growled, “we'll have to do something about that.”

“You're a man of action,” the Moor remarked. “I like that.”

Porthos grinned, even if he did not really feel it. “Our captors won't,” he swore. “I'll never be a slave. Are you with me, friend?”

Fadil gazed at him, his eyes bright in the dim room. “I am, big man.”


	6. Chapter 6

It had been a full day of searching. Two days since they had last seen Porthos.

The large Musketeer had left the tavern he had been playing and drinking at in the small hours of the morning. After that, he seemed to have disappeared. Tréville had given them a few men to help in their search, and they had been combing the streets around the tavern but there was no one who had seen him, no reports of a fight between a Musketeer and anyone else, Red Guards or otherwise, no trace of him.

Athos had visited the morgue in the afternoon with d'Artagnan, and they had returned so grim-faced and silent that Aramis had feared the worst until Athos had shaken his head and said: “He wasn't there.”

Aramis deflated, blowing out a breath, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Thank God,” he murmured reverently.

Athos sat down heavily and helped himself to a cup of wine. “We're running out of places to look,” he said darkly.

“No!” d'Artagnan protested, looking scandalised. “We can't give up!”

“Peace, d'Artagnan.” Athos raised a calming hand. “That's not what I meant. Just that--”

“I'll go to the Court of Miracles,” Aramis interrupted him. “Find Flea. Maybe she can help.”

Athos looked at him sharply, then nodded, once. “Be careful,” he said meaningfully. “You're not Porthos.”

Aramis smirked. “No, really? What gave it away?” More seriously, he continued: “Don't worry, I'll be careful – and I hope Flea will at least remember who stitched her up that one time.”

“Alright,” Athos said with a nod. “As for us,” he said to d'Artagnan, “what I meant to say is, we haven't found any signs of him anywhere we would have suspected him to be – he's not injured, he's not dead, as far as we can tell, so … I suspect he must have been taken by someone. We should find out if they have taken him out of the city.”

d'Artagnan nodded, mollified. “So we check the gates and the docks,” he concluded.

“We'll meet back at the Wren?” Aramis suggested as he got up from the bench. The other two nodded, and he lifted his hat to them as a goodbye before heading up to his room. Walking into the Court of Miracles in full uniform was not the best idea, so he left his pauldron and hat in his room and wore an old, nondescript cloak over his doublet when he headed out again.

Usually, this would be Porthos' role – after the events of his last birthday, he had made a point of keeping in touch with his former lover and some other people in the Court he still knew, and it had proven useful quite a few times to have their eyes and ears on the streets. But as it was, he had to hope that Flea would be willing to talk to him and help him. Given that it was about Porthos, he did not think she would not, though.

It took some time and careful asking around until he found her. “Flea,” he called.

The woman looked up. “Ah, Porthos' handsome friend,” she said with a smirk.

Aramis smiled at her. “Glad that you remember me. Though you probably shouldn't let Porthos hear you calling other men handsome,” he teased.

Flea's face dropped into a scowl. “Porthos knows better than to try and control what I say,” she replied, turning away dismissively.

Aramis flinched and bit his lip. He had known that Flea was an independent soul but not how prickly she was. “My apologies. I did not wish to offend you.”

The scowl on the young woman's face did not ease but she turned back to him and inclined her head. “Well, what is it that you want, then?” she asked bluntly. “And why didn't Porthos come, this time?”

He moved towards her so he could lower his voice and replied: “Because he is missing.”

Flea's mouth dropped open, and she brought up a hand to cover it. “Since when?” she asked sharply.

“We've last seen him the day before yesterday. He was playing at a tavern, past the sixth hour – he disappeared after leaving the tavern."

Flea seemed to have recovered from the shock – he could see her mind starting to work behind those sharp blue-green eyes. “I assume you've checked he isn't being accused of murder again?” she asked with a quick, bright spark of humour. Sobering, she added: “And he isn't dead ...”

Aramis shook his head. “He's not in the Chatelet or the Bastille – nor in the morgue. It looks like someone must have taken him, else we'd have found … something. Athos and d'Artagnan are checking the gates and docks right now.” He looked at her imploringly. “I know people disappear in Paris all the time, particularly around here. But if you can find out something, anything, that could help us ...”

She looked at him, somewhat wary, but then nodded quickly. “For Porthos? Certainly,” she replied. “I'll need some time. Meet me at Le Matîn – that's a tavern just outside of the Court, I'm sure you'll find it. In three hours.”

“Alright. I'll go see what the others have found, then we'll wait for you there. Thanks, Flea.” Aramis smiled and tipped two fingers to his temple in greeting before turning around and making his way out of the maze of the Court's streets and buildings.

Athos and d'Artagnan were already back at the garrison when he got there, and he was disappointed but not very surprised that they had not found anything tangible. Whoever had taken Porthos wasn't stupid enough to lead a bound and trussed-up captive out of the city directly under the guards' eyes. Still, they were a subdued group that ended up in a corner of Le Matîn, sharing a bottle of wine so poor even Athos seemed disinclined to continue drinking after his first cup, and waiting for Flea to show up.

It was way past the three hours she had set that the young woman came ghosting up to them through the throng of patrons, slipping onto the bench next to d'Artagnan and greeting them all with a tip of her head.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle,” Athos, always the gentleman, greeted her while the other two gave her a tense smile and a nod.

Flea waved them off impatiently and looked at Athos and d'Artagnan with a questioning gaze. “Aramis said you were checking the docks and gates. Did you find anything?”

Athos shook his head. “Nothing specific,” he said, regret and worry colouring his cool tone. “I hope you have better tidings for us?”

Flea bit her lip and twisted one of the long strips of cloth adorning her skirt between her fingers. “You won't like it – I certainly don't,” she said.

“As long as it helps us find Porthos, I'll be glad of any information you can give us,” Aramis told her honestly.

She nodded and let the fabric fall, instead clasping her thin hands together on the tabletop. “There have been a couple of disappearances lately. Not overly much, it could just be coincidence, people leaving or getting hurt or killed without news getting back to their people,” she started.

“But?” d'Artagnan asked impatiently.

“But they all have something in common,” Flea explained, ignoring his interruption. She took a deep breath. “They – well, not all of them but quite a few, most … they all had dark skin.” She looked almost pained at these words. “Negros, mulattoes – there have been a few Moors in the Court lately since they were turned out by Spain, some of them are gone, too ...”

She fell silent, and Aramis looked from her to his brothers and found the same horror reflected on their faces that he was sure was also found on his. A large number of dark-skinned men going missing, it lent itself to only one likely conclusion: “Slavers,” he breathed, feeling fear close an icy fist around his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Researching the Moors in Spain actually made me realise "The Good Traitor" wasn't very accurate - the Moors were turned out of Spain in 1616, so it's extremely unlikely a Moor could still hold a high position in the Spanish army in 1631. In the episode, it had sounded as if it had been much more recent ... Anyway, at that time, I had already established Fadil, so I decided to go with some mix between show canon and history and make it sound as if it's been a few years prior but probably not the 15 years it actually was. And it's not as if my story has any claim to historical accuracy and thorough research ...


	7. Chapter 7

It was not his first time being held captive, and that probably said something about his lot in life, something that was best contemplated with a bottle of wine and a friend to lend a sympathetic ear. Both were in short supply right now, however. The point was, if he concentrated very hard and ignored the way their prison swayed lightly with the ship's movements and the weight of the shackles around his wrists and ankles, he could almost imagine this was just a mission. A mission where his brothers were not far off and knew how to find him, and it was only a matter of time …

One of the others coughed and broke the spell. Porthos sighed and threw a glance at his fellow captive. By now, he knew their names and stories. Two of them were Paris-born and -raised like him, though they had never walked among the beggars and thieves of the Court of Miracles. The third was from a small village outside Paris and had been taken on the road nearby.

The fourth, the man Fadil had said had also been beaten, never regained consciousness and died in the first night.

After that, Fadil had taken it upon himself to beg until one of the men gave him clean water, a bit of alcohol and some clean cloth. Porthos was grateful; despite remembering well everything Aramis had had to say on the topics of wounds and infection, which had been a lot over all those years of fighting beside the man and getting wounded and sewn together and nursed back to health by him, he did not think he could have made himself beg for help. As it was, the inside of his cheeks was raw and painful from how he was biting it every time one of the slavers came to bring water or food and a never-ending supply of taunts and insults.

Fadil had been a mostly competent nursemaid with the supplies he had been given, though, and so the whip marks crisscrossing Porthos' back had been cleaned and bandaged, and while they felt tight and uncomfortable, and he was sure they would scar badly, he did not feel the tell-tale heat that he had come to associate with infection. Good; he had no intention of dying here. Preferably, he would not die at all, but if worst came to worst, he would rather die in the attempt to flee than live as a slave.

With nothing else to do than talk with Fadil and the others and sleep, he had had more than enough time to devote to thoughts of escape. There was still a faint glimmer of hope that his brothers would come; but he would not sit around and wait for them if there was a chance to get away before that. After turning over in his mind everything that he knew about their situation for most of a day, he now sat up and gestured to the others to come as close as the chains would allow. He needed to know what they were thinking to be sure his attempt at a plan would work. Again, he felt his friends' absence keenly – Athos' sharp mind which surely would have come up with a far better plan than his own, Aramis' levity and steady, gentle hands, d'Artagnan's zeal and hardheadedness which could almost make the chains bend to his will alone …

He gathered the memories of his brothers close but then put them away – he needed them to hold onto his strength and sanity, but right now he could not spend time and energy on missing them.

“Alright, mates,” he said to his fellow captives, “here's how I see it: If we want to fight, there are a few things we need to talk about. Though that's probably what I should ask first: If we fight, who's with me?”

The others exchanged looks. None of them was a soldier – Jean was a bricklayer, Robert a merchant's assistant, and Marcel, the one from outside Paris, was a farmhand. All of them were fit, though; the slavers were obviously not interested in taking weak “goods”. Maybe they had miscalculated when taking the man who had died, or maybe something had gone wrong. Porthos was not about to judge a man for dying.

Marcel was the first to speak. “I'll fight,” he declared. “My family needs me.”

Jean, probably the oldest, nodded solemnly. “I'd rather die trying than live a slave,” he said, his voice a quiet rasp in the sticky air. Robert did not speak, just nodded – as did Fadil, though the Moor had already promised the night before that he would fight with Porthos.

He smiled, relieved – they might not be soldiers, or even people from other parts of society that were familiar with violence, too, but five men together could still make a lot of trouble for their captors. He would make sure of that.

“Right,” he said, “then let's look at the situation. First problem: these.” He shook his hands to make the chains rattle. “If I had a lock pick, I could take care of that. As it is, we'll have to work with them until I can get my hands on a knife.” He held up two fingers. “Second problem: we're on a ship. I dunno much about how fast ships go on the river – any of you know that?” He was met with head shakes all around and sighed. He hadn't expected much otherwise, but still … “Anyway. Best guess is, we're on the Seine. That means we're headin' for Le Havre. No idea when we'll get there, but the way I see it, we've got two ways to go about it. First: we fight and try to get out before we get there. Second: we wait until Le Havre. First option means we'll have to jump the man bringin' us food and water and then fight our way up to the deck. Possibly jump overboard, and we might be far from any towns, no way to tell where. Possibly easier to avoid capture in the woods, though, if there are any.” He took a deep breath. “Waitin' until Le Havre could mean they'll bring us up on deck. We wouldn't have to fight our way up, but there'd be more men, I'd guess. Maybe bein' in town with lotsa people around could help us give them the slip, and there's a constabulary to report us bein' kidnapped to. Slavin' might not be a crime,” he snorted darkly, remembering all too well a certain slippery-tongued “merchant” who almost had made him yearn for a better life before he learned what it would be bought with, “but capturin' free men of France is.” He looked at his companions. “What do you think?”

Fadil shook his head. “I have no idea which option is better,” he admitted. “But you think you could take the man with the food?”

“Easily,” Porthos said with a confident nod. He was not boasting – the chains would hinder him but he had grown up brawling and knew his strength. And if there was one thing he had learned about the slavers, it was that they were arrogant. They believed themselves better, thought that their captives were dim-witted and slow. Porthos would show them that he was neither.

“That sounds better, then – taking one man down and taking his weapons. Who knows how many we would have to fight on deck,” Fadil thought aloud.

“We don't know where we are, though,” Jean interjected. “What if we find ourselves leagues from the next village or town?”

“Then we'll deal with it,” Porthos told him bluntly. “Thing is, we'll never know for sure what we'll face when we get out of here. What we can decide is how and when we'll try to do it.”

Marcel nodded. “I vote for jumping the man,” he said. “You said you're a soldier, and from what you've told us, you know far more about this than any of us. If you think you can do this, I trust you.”

Porthos couldn't help but smile at that. “Thanks,” he replied.

“I agree,” the quiet Robert said, offering a half-smile and a nod.

Jean looked unhappy but finally ceded his agreement with a nod. “I don't like the thought of fleeing these bastards somewhere in the wilderness,” he said, “but neither would I want to take on all of them at once. Maybe this way, we can take them down one by one.”

Fadil grinned and patted Porthos' shoulder. “Well, you can take them down, big man,” he remarked, “while I pray that the rest of us have to intervene as little as possible. We might be more hindrance than help to you.”

Porthos frowned at him. “Don't hesitate, though,” he warned. “I need to know you'll be there if things go south.”

The Moor exchanged a glance with the others, then they turned to him as one and nodded. “We'll do our best to help you.”

Porthos allowed a fierce grin to spread on his face. “Good,” he said, looking up to the small window that was their only connection to the outside world in this cabin. The light filtering through it was dim, heralding the night falling. “Tomorrow we'll make a break for it.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Slavers?” Tréville's frown had deepened as Athos had reported what they had found, as little as it was, and what Flea had said.

“Yes, Sir,” Athos said. “At least that seems to be the most likely conclusion.” His voice was still calm and controlled, but Aramis, who knew his friend better than almost anyone else, could see the worry in the blue eyes and the anxiety in the set of his shoulders and how tightly he was gripping the hilt of his rapier. Next to him, d'Artagnan had folded his arms over his chest and bit his lips, barely managing to keep himself from fidgeting.

After leaving Le Matîn, they had not wasted any time returning to the garrison, and they had not been surprised that there was still light in Tréville's office – apart from his propensity to work on his paperwork late into the night, sleep often evaded their Captain if something was wrong in the regiment. And one of his men, Porthos, missing without a trace definitely fell in that category.

“It may be a coincidence, but Flea didn't think so,” Aramis offered, fidgeting with the hat he held in front of him. “And I agree, there seems to be a pattern here, and Porthos' disappearance fits into it.”

Tréville regarded them another few moments, then nodded sharply. He stood up and took a map from his cabinet. “I will make some inquiries but that will take some time – time Porthos may not have.” He unrolled the map, using some books and his inkwell to pin down the corners. “They could have taken him out of the city here, or here, or on the river from the docks,” he said, indicating the places on the map. “The main demand for slaves comes from the colonies, so Spain could be an option – they are always in need of bodies. I'd rule out Calais, England has its own colonies to supplement their holdings. Last I heard, they're also taking a lot of the Irish – that's not to say they would not use French slaves if they fell into their hands, but I do not think it's very likely.

The other likely option, in my opinion, would be Le Havre.” He looked up at them, the fierce blue eyes all but pinning them in place. “I'm sure you remember that merchant Bonnaire?”

Aramis forced himself not to flinch. They had told him about Porthos' discovery of Bonnaire's actual “merchandise”, of course, but how much did the Captain know about how they had dealt with the adventurer? In the end, it did not matter. If he knew, he had never said anything, so it was unlikely he would start now.

At his side, Athos was nodding solemnly, his face carefully blank. “I do,” he only said. “So, Le Havre or the Spanish border.”

Tréville took a deep breath. “Yes. I'll send one group of men to one destination, you take the other. Which one?” he asked his lieutenant. Athos did not hesitate but placed his gloved finger on the map. “Le Havre,” he replied.

The Captain nodded. “I thought so,” he said. “I'll have Mauvais lead the group to the border, he grew up in the region and speaks Spanish. You leave as soon as possible – if they took him out of the city immediately, they have a two day's head start on you.”

Athos tipped his head and looked around at his friends before clasping his hat back on his head. “We'll be leaving at first light,” he said. “Thank you, Captain.”

Their commander waved it away. “Just bring him back,” he told them. “And make sure everyone knows you don't take a Musketeer lightly.”

Aramis straightened and all but growled in agreement. “We'll make them rue the day they took our brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a bit sorry for these three, there is so much *talking* ... Hopefully, they will get to have some action before the story is over, too.
> 
> Also sorry for the short update - the next one will make up for it in both length and stuff happening, though!


	9. Chapter 9

It had been a restless night Porthos had spent but he had forced himself to get some sleep, at least. He was awake as soon as the darkness of their room started lightening up with the weak light filtering down through the small window, though, and so were the others. By the time they heard the rattling of the key in the door's lock, all of them were alert and ready. Porthos met the eyes of Jean who sat closest to the door, opposite of him, and gave him the smallest of nods.

The door opened, and one of the slavers came in. Porthos was not sure who of the men it was – besides the one who seemed to be the leader, he had not had the opportunity to watch them enough to tell them apart. They seemed to be pretty much interchangeable, large and strong, and prone to the arrogance of men used to getting their way by being bigger and stronger than almost everyone around them.

When the man had fully stepped inside and closed the door with a kick behind him, Jean stuck out his foot in front of the man's legs, and at the same time, he kicked out his other foot against his leg, as high up as his shackles allowed. The man gave a surprised grunt as he stumbled over the outstretched leg and the kick connected, forcing him further off balance and causing him to fall to his right – within Porthos' reach. The water bowls and pieces of bread he'd been carrying fell in a deafening cacophony, at least to the prisoners' ears, but Porthos did not have time to worry about that. The moment the man struck the ground barely an arm's length from him, he moved and threw his upper body over the man's back, pinning him to the ground. He stretched out his arms, the chain between his wrists snapping taut, and then it cruelly wrapped around the man's throat. He had not had the time to cry out before his air was cut off, and Porthos held fast as he thrashed under him almost soundlessly, the only sounds the tips of his boots hitting the floor, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wooden boards as he bucked in his desperate bid for air. It felt like ages but had to have been barely a minute when his movements ceased and he fell limp beneath Porthos.

The Musketeer breathed a sigh of relief, and after waiting a moment to ensure the man was dead, he got off the lifeless body and immediately moved to the man's belt, searching for his weapons. There was no sword or pistol but a large, well-kept knife and some sort of club which Porthos passed on to Jean, probably the strongest of his comrades. He sat back on his haunches and asked roughly: “Any of you good at picking locks?”

When there was no reply, he looked up and was met with three shocked faces. Jean was holding the club like it was a snake about to strike, and Robert was so pale he could almost pass as fair-skinned. At Porthos' side, he could barely hear Fadil breathing.

He bit back a sigh and instead said: “You all never have seen a man die before?” He tried to sound sympathetic ... But they did not have time for their sensibilities right now, so he got started on unlocking the cuffs around his ankles. It seemed that despite the crash of the fall and the bowls of water shattering, no one was coming running to investigate – so far.

The three of them opposite him shook their heads, and Marcel replied shakily: “Not … Not like that.” His gaze was still locked on the face of the lifeless man, and though Porthos barely glanced up from his work, he knew what being strangled looked like. Still, he said brusquely: “I know it's not pretty. Just remember who that man was, what he was doin' to you.” The first manacle opened with a click, and he moved on to the next. “Anyone of you know how to pick a lock?” he repeated his earlier question.

This time, there was a low murmured choir of “No”, and he sighed. The chain was long enough that he thought he could get the cuffs off his wrists, but someone else might have had a better angle. Well, needs must. The second ankle cuff unlocked, and he started on his wrists. “Fadil,” he directed at the same time, “if you can grab him, drag him to the side behind you.” The Moor obeyed silently, and Porthos tried to listen for any approaching steps outside while he worked. Finally, the manacles were gone, and he took what felt like the first free breath in days.

“Alright, gotta be quick, so I'll release your legs first,” he explained as he got up and moved to Fadil, crouching before him. The Moor looked up at him, and there was a spark of something like fear in his eyes as he took in the knife in Porthos' hands when he reached for his legs, and he pulled them back instinctively.

The large man suppressed a surge of regret at seeing this reaction in the man who had been so kind to him since he had woken up in this room. “Calm, my friend,” he said, raising his hands. “Please believe me that I won't harm you – any of you.”

For a few heartbeats, they just stared at each other until finally, Fadil blew out a harsh breath and bowed his head. “I know, I'm sorry, big man,” he replied, leaning back and stretching out his ankle to Porthos. “It's just … It … I'm not used to such violence.”

Porthos nodded as he got to work again. “I'm glad of it,” he said quietly. He could barely remember a time he hadn't known violence … “I'll do my best that you will not have to witness and participate in too much of it today.”

A hand on his wrist made him look up, and Fadil gave him a sorrowful smile. “Thank you,” the Moor said.

“Don't thank me just yet. The day has just begun,” Porthos retorted.

He had barely released Fadil's ankles and the chain tethering him to the wall when Jean hissed an alarmed “Porthos!”, and he thought he could hear footsteps approaching. He swiftly got up and moved to the door, pressing an ear against it, then nodded at Jean. Positioning himself behind the door, he barely dared breathe when it opened a moment later. “Hey Mauvais, what--?” was all the man entering got out before a large hand closed over his mouth, and Porthos drew the knife across his throat. Blood gushed down the man's front, warm and bright, and the Musketeer carefully lowered him to the ground. It was another one of the henchmen, and he didn't feel particularly disappointed, even if he wanted to get his hands on the snake's head.

Standing again, he closed the door, then wiped the knife on the unsoiled back of the man's shirt and checked him for weapons. This one had a pistol he kept for himself, tucking it into the waistband of his breeches, and another knife he pressed into Marcel's hands as he crouched down before him to work on his shackles. “Gotta hurry now,” he murmured, “I'd guess if they're not totally stupid, they will suspect something is wrong when the second man fails to come back.” They seemed to have been lucky so far, with the first man not making enough noise to draw immediate attention and the second man being careless despite his comrade's failure to return. But Porthos was not about to trust that their luck would hold, so he got to work on the remaining shackles as fast as he could.

As it was, their luck ran out when he was working on Robert's chains, the last one to be released. This time there was no sound outside to warn them as the door suddenly burst open and two men stormed into the room. Fadil called out a warning “Porthos!”; Jean stepped forward and brought down the club on the first man's head. He instantaneously dropped like a stone but then the second man was there, his sword already in his hand, and he cut down on Jean's arm so fiercely that it was a wonder the Mulatto did not lose his hand. 

Porthos leapt to his feet and met the man as Jean fell back, howling in pain. He caught the man's sword arm, catching the blow that would have opened Jean from shoulder to hip, and let his momentum carry him forward, into the man, and against the wall behind him. His free arm came up across the man's throat, pressing him into the wall and cutting off his air. The slaver struggled, his free hand forming a fist and hitting Porthos in the side and ribs, while he pulled and pushed against the grip pinning his sword arm. The swarthy Musketeer held fast, gritting his teeth against the blows – there wasn't enough force behind them to do real damage but they still hurt. Soon enough, the man's movements weakened and then ceased, and he took a deep breath and let the insensate man slump to the ground as he released his hold and immediately returned to the lock still holding Robert's shackles closed. “Fadil, take one of their shirts and bind Jean's wound,” he ordered. “As firmly as you can, even if it's painful. Marcel, check them for weapons and distribute them between you four. I'll take the sword.” He heard the others move around them behind him but tried to blend it out and only concentrate on the delicate workings of the lock, working as quickly as he could.

Finally, the lock sprung open, and he got to his feet, offering Robert a hand up. “On second thought, take those shirts, too,” he said, indicating the two unconscious men – Fadil had chosen the first dead guard's shirt. “We'll need all the supplies we can get.” The second dead man's shirt was useless, of course. He bent to pick up the sword, tested its weight and heft. It felt unfamiliar in his hands, and he thought with a pang of regret of his own schiavona – but beggars can't be choosers, and it was a great relief to have a weapon in his hands again. Without the shackles and armed, he was already starting to feel more like himself again, less as if he actually was what those men had seen in him.

He turned and observed his comrades. Jean's skin was tinted grey, and there were deep lines of pain etched in his face, but he was standing, and the dark eyes were alert and clear. Fadil had bundled up the leftover shirts, and Porthos noted with approval that he had also picked up the bread the first man had brought them for breakfast. Robert and Marcel stood somewhat uncertainly, holding the weapons they had taken off the guards. They all looked to Porthos, and he cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably. It wasn't often that he had to be the leader.

“Alright,” he said roughly. “We gotta get out of here. I'm sorry about the shackles,” he nodded to the manacles still locked at their wrists,” but we don't have time now – this room will turn into a trap if we don't get goin'.”

Fadil gave him a soft smile, and Robert said: “We understand.” Marcel and Jean nodded, and he returned the nod gratefully.

“I'll go first. Keep close and try to be quiet,” he told them, then moved to the door and opened it softly. The corridor behind it was empty – for now –, and he quickly started down it, praying that he had chosen the right direction. There were other doors in the walls, and he briefly thought of checking the rooms behind them. They could use any supplies they might find – and, even more important, what if the slavers had taken more people? Maybe one of these rooms even held women or children … He shuddered at the thought. But as much as he wanted to check, he had to protect four men, one of them already severely wounded – he could not waste time or energy on such possibilities. By reflex, he raised his left hand to grasp the medal around his neck, but his fingers closed on empty air. Right, they had taken his St. Jude's medal, too. He bit back a sigh and sent a silent prayer to his patron Saint anyway, asking him to watch over anyone else in the slavers' hands. As the patron of lost causes, it surely fell within his purview.

Then he took a deep breath, gripping the hilt of the sword more tightly, and went on with one last thought to anyone they might be leaving behind: _I'm sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action scenes are hard, yo.


	10. Chapter 10

Aramis slid out of the saddle and let himself drop to the ground, almost stumbling when he landed. He was tired – they all were. Usually, the ride to Le Havre from Paris took a good three days, but they had done it in barely more than two. That they had arrived in the morning today and not late at night yesterday was, perhaps surprisingly, thanks to d'Artagnan – while Aramis did not doubt their youngest wanted to find Porthos as urgently as they all did, he also was the only one who, despite it all, had the good sense to tell them that killing their horses over it was not the way to go. The lad loved horses, and Aramis guessed the care for the animals had been ingrained in him on his father's farm from the time he could walk, probably, so he could not abide by the beasts being hurt despite it all. Athos had mostly agreed with d'Artagnan quickly, but their usually so stoic leader was unsettled enough by the situation that he seemed unwilling to put a stop to their journey himself even when he knew just as well as d'Artagnan that it was necessary. As for Aramis himself, he chafed at every minute they were off their horses' backs, knowing it could not only mean that Porthos had already arrived in Le Havre by then but also that he was gone again, gone to some unknown fate far away in a foreign country, never to return, if he even survived the hellish journey to the colonies on a slave ship. Part of him knew that this might not even have been the way their brother had travelled, that they might be chasing a phantom. But most of him fervently believed and prayed that they were on the right path, that they would find him if only they were arriving in Le Havre on time. The alternative was just too painful to consider.

“You two get the horses settled,” Athos ordered as he pulled his saddlebags off his horse's back. “Give me your things. I'll be inside getting us rooms.”

Aramis nodded and handed their leader his bags in exchange for the reins of Athos' horse. He led the two animals towards the stables, knowing d'Artagnan would be right behind him with his own horse. It was a familiar task to untack and groom the horses, and for a bit, he could get lost in it, only concentrating on the feeling of his horse's soft, warm coat beneath his hands as he brushed it, the smell of beasts and straw in the air, the animals' soft snuffling and d'Artagnan's low voice speaking gentle nonsense to his horse. It was the closest feeling to being at ease he had had for the last – God, had it really only been four days? It felt much longer.

All too soon, though, the spell broke, and he hurried to help d'Artagnan with Athos' horse. They had things to do, and peace would come later, once Porthos had been returned to them. That's what he was telling himself over and over.

When they were finished, before they headed back to the inn, d'Artagnan stepped beside Aramis and rested a warm hand on his shoulder. The marksman looked at him with a hint of surprise at the gesture, but the young man just gave him a slight smile before the hand vanished and he went ahead towards the main building. Aramis allowed himself a small smile at his friend's perceptiveness and compassion and followed. Some days, it was still wondrous how easily the Gascon had slipped into their circle and made his home there.

Any ease disappeared again when they entered the building and found Athos standing by the entrance, their bags forgotten at his feet, as he read a letter with a deep, troubled frown on his face. Aramis felt d'Artagnan tense at his side, and the young swordsman wasted no time to ask: “Athos? What is it?”

Athos looked up, and his features smoothed out, though Aramis was not fooled. “Do not concern yourself,” the older man said calmly. “It's from Tréville.”

That, in Aramis' mind, seemed like a valid cause for concern, given how fast they had travelled – whatever the Captain had written, it must have been sent with the utmost urgency. Looking at d'Artagnan, he saw the same question on his face. “How?” the Gascon asked.

“How?” Athos repeated. “Oh, Tréville knows this is the first inn his men call upon when in Le Havre.” He sighed. “As to how it got here so fast, I don't know – I suppose he sent it using a fast ship.”

Aramis felt his thin patience snap. “For God's sake, Athos, as if that's important!” he burst out. “Tell us what it says already!”

Athos raised an eyebrow and reprimanded him quietly: “You know if it were of great consequence, I would have told you at once.” However, at the same time, he stepped closer and put a hand on the arm of the agitated marksman. With the other hand, he extended the letter for him to take it. “It's a list of all ships that have left Paris on the Seine bound for Le Havre from the time of Porthos' disappearance to when the Captain sent the letter.”

Aramis took the letter and scanned it, then handed it to d'Artagnan, sagging slightly as some of the tension bled out of him. “I guess that is good to have, we can use it to compare it to the harbour master's records,” he said though he still wondered at the Captain's urgency in sending it. But then, the “old fox”, as the King liked to call their Captain, was one of the sharpest minds he knew. If he thought it was important for them to have this information, it probably was true.

“Alright, let's get us settled in our room, then we'll head out to the docks.” Athos accepted the letter back from d'Artagnan after the younger man had finished reading it, then picked up his bags and moved off, the other two following.

At the port, they went to the harbour master first, and Athos set about copying all information about the ships coming and going in the last few days while Aramis and d'Artagnan spoke to the man. Once he had seen their pauldrons, he was eager to help them in any way he could, but he had little to offer besides the information in his books Athos was copying. In a harbour as large and busy as Le Havre, he rarely bothered with checking ships himself but relied on a large number of assistants. If someone was trading slaves at Le Havre, they did so with the harbour master none the wiser.

Aramis clamped down on his frustration and impatience and finally bid the man adieu with the coldest politeness he could muster as Athos rose to his feet and beckoned d'Artagnan and him to finish.

Outside, he gave them a sharp glance, but d'Artagnan just shook his head. “Tell me you've found something that gives us a place to start,” the Gascon implored, his tone echoing Aramis' frustration.

Athos gazed thoughtfully at the pages filled with his neat hand, then nodded. “Give me a moment to check the list the Captain sent,” he told them and leaned back against the wall of the harbour master's office, took out the Captain's letter and let his gaze flit across it. Then he straightened up and nodded again, his mouth pressed into a thin, determined line.

“Tell us,” Aramis demanded, his impatience spilling over.

Athos raised an eyebrow at him but did not bother giving back a sharp retort. Instead, he held up a page and tapped on a name. “We'll start with this one,” he declared. “La Perle – she left Paris the day after Porthos' disappearance. But she arrived in Le Havre a day later than these two which left Paris around the same time,” he explained. “Plus, judging from the crew size, she would be about the same size as this one, see?” He tapped on the page again, and Aramis moved closer to take the paper from him and study it. “But she had almost no cargo, a fraction of what that other one was carrying, so ...” He let the sentence hang in the air and spread his arms, the gesture clearly saying “you can guess what else she was carrying”.

Aramis nodded, feeling a bright spark in his chest for the first time in days. Just the thought of having a place to start was a blessing, so the cheer he forced into his voice was not entirely false as he said: “That does sound promising. Let's go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor boys, all that leg work isn't fun...


	11. Chapter 11

The first man they encountered he ran through without a pause but not before the slaver called out; but the second man did, too, so it really didn't matter. Only seconds behind the first, the second man nearly ran _him_ through, and it was only due to Marcel throwing himself at the man and stabbing at his gut, inexpertly but viciously, that Porthos only gained a long slice down his side, from his chest to the waistband of his breeches. He choked back the sound of pain and pierced the man's chest with his sword, finishing what Marcel's knife had started.

After that, things devolved into splintered moments, running a few paces, then there was another enemy, this one good enough that it took a few parries and ripostes until he managed to slip under his defence and send his sword flying, knocking him out with a strong left hook – then running again, and the next time they met two, but Robert was able to keep one busy while Marcel drew a pistol – he hadn't even known that there had been another pistol than the one he had taken – and shot the other man, without a moment's hesitation, and Porthos turned to the remaining man, just as he knocked Robert's knife from his hand, and buried his sword in the man's back. Fadil hung back from the fight, supporting a thin-lipped Jean, but they kept pace as they started running again. Porthos could feel sweat sliding down his back and burning in the barely scabbed-over whip marks, mingling with what he's sure was blood from where the scabs and new skin had split again, and his side was bleeding freely, soaking his breeches. But he had to keep going.

Then they burst through a door, and suddenly they were on deck. There were men assembled on it, but most of them looked to be sailors, engrossed in their tasks necessary to keep the ship going. Several others were approaching, though, drawing their weapons, and Porthos knew that if he let himself be drawn into a fight, if they only took a few moments too long, it would all be over. “Jump!” he roared and barreled towards the ship's starboard, between two startled sailors. There was no time to look for a different way, not even to look whether this side or the other was closer to the river's edge, to either reach it more quickly or even jump to the ground immediately. All the time he had was to hope fervently that his companions were good swimmers and pray for their forgiveness that he hadn't been able to release their wrists, to tuck his stolen sword into his belt.

And then he jumped.

It seemed to take ages to fall. His body struck the water with punishing force, and he opened his mouth to cry out, only for water to rush in. Choking and disoriented, he did not know which way was up or down for a moment before he remembered how to use his arms and legs.

He struck out powerfully, and after a few strokes, his head broke through the surface, and he heaved in air, coughed, drew in another breath. Finally, he could look around and saw with pleased relief four other dark heads bobbing nearby.

Porthos managed to raise a hand from the water and give a weak wave. “'m alright,” he ground out.

“Swim downstream at an angle,” Marcel all but ordered and started off, moving fluidly in the water. Porthos trod water, looking at his other comrades and for the ship. Robert seemed to struggle to keep himself afloat but both Fadil and Jean seemed to do alright, even if the latter's face was a rigid mask of pain as he forced his injured arm to move.

And the ship was already two lengths ahead of them, even as the men on it swarmed over the deck like angry ants, presumably to stop it. But a ship was no horse or carriage, to be easily swung around on its watery road. Even if his instincts wanted him to turn around and swim in the opposite direction, he knew Marcel was right – angling their trajectory towards the river's edge but not directly fighting against the stream was their best bet to get on dry land as fast as they could.

“Holdin' up, Robert?” he called out to the older mulatto. The other man coughed up some water but nodded. “I'm alright,” he swore, “just not a good swimmer.”

Porthos nodded back but paced himself slightly as to not pull ahead of him yet. He was not a great swimmer either, had never learned it during his childhood in the Court when the only body of water available for swimming was the Seine flowing sluggishly through the city and bearing all the waste and refuse Paris was constantly shedding, and the only men who voluntarily entered its waters were those too drunk, too unlucky or too weary of life. But early on in his time with the Musketeers, Athos and Aramis had discovered this and had taught him, patiently practicing with him whenever they had the time and opportunity. So he knew that even if his style lacked finesse and he wouldn't be able to make any difficult manoeuvres or last for very long, he could keep himself afloat quite well, and hopefully, he could help if Robert needed it. He was holding up, though, and ahead of him, Porthos could already see Marcel pull himself out of the water and onto solid ground.

The next moment, though, a shout rang out, from whom he could not tell, and without a moment's hesitation, Marcel dove back into the river. Porthos cursed under his breath and looked around to Robert, then sped up. As he drew near, he realised that he could only see one dark head bobbing in the water, and it was Fadil – there was no sign of Marcel. And no sign of Jean.

“What happened?” he asked.

Fadil looked around to him, then continued scanning the river's surface, his eyes wide and near-frantic, while he trod water and tried to keep himself from drifting off. The river's current was strong, though, and already they had been pulled a few metres along. “I-I don't know,” he said, “Jean was right behind me, and suddenly he was gone.”

Porthos' heart sank. Jean had been hurt, and he'd held up admirably despite what had to be significant pain and blood loss … It was not hard to guess that his strength had finally failed him, in one of the worst moments possible.

A few paces ahead, Marcel broke through the surface. “I can't find him,” he gasped. Porthos cursed again. No, that wasn't how their flight was supposed to end!

Marcel took a deep breath again and dove back in, leaving them to tread water and stare at the river's surface. Porthos looked up, down the river, and something in him clicked at the sight of the ship. It was a good distance away but not as far as he had expected. _They're stopping,_ his brain supplied. _They're stopping, and they're coming for us._

“Fadil,Robert,” he said harshly. “Get out of the water. Marcel and I will be right behind you.”

Fadil looked at him and then towards where they had last seen Marcel, his face full of conflict. In the end, he did not speak, though, just nodded and followed Robert who seemingly didn't need to be told twice.

It was only a few moments later that Marcel reappeared, and before he could even do much but take a deep breath, Porthos had traversed the distance to him with a few strong strokes. “Get out of the water,” he repeated his order.

Marcel stared at him with a look of betrayal. “But Jean--”

“Jean is gone,” Porthos told him, even as it pained him to say it. Jean had wanted to die a free man rather than live as a slave – had it been enough that he did not have to die on that ship? “We need to get out of here.”

Marcel stared a moment longer, then nodded and quickly, with strong, even strokes, swam towards the river's edge. Porthos followed as fast as he could and heaved a relieved sign when he reached the shallows of the shore. Stumbling, his limbs heavy with exertion and cold, he made his way to dry land.

Fadil and Robert came to join them, and Marcel sank to the ground, one hand pressed to his mouth as if he feared he would be sick. “Jean,” he said, his voice full of anguish.

They had barely known each other for two days, but some things forged a bond quickly, it seemed. Porthos could not deny that it hurt, losing the strong, stoic bricklayer just as they had made their escape.

Still, there was no time.

He bent down, closing a large hand around Marcel's biceps, and pulled him to his feet. “We have to go,” he said. Now that he did not have to concentrate on swimming and on his companions, he could see the ship in a distance – it seemed to have stopped, dropped anchor, and there was activity on the deck that he thought meant they were lowering a boat.

Marcel made a small sound of protest but after a moment, he nodded, found his feet and stood. Porthos looked around to the other two, meeting first Fadil's, then Robert's eyes in turn, and nodded to them. “Let's go,” he repeated and pointed to a rise in the distance where shadows of trees rose against the sky.

They nodded back. And then they ran.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, can you do me a favour? Can you have a look at the tags for this story and tell me if you think there's something missing (in particular in terms of warnings/triggers) that should be there? Someone on Tumblr recently criticised that a story that sounded a lot like this one (it didn't give a title/link, so I can't be sure) was not tagged correctly, and while I thought I had tagged everything important (especially the slavery and abduction/kidnapping), it made me feel very insecure ... I added a bunch of tags to be sure but would appreciate it if you could help me out in case I missed something.
> 
> Thank you!

The captain of La Perle, a short, barrel-chested man, was far less helpful than the harbour master. It took several minutes of posturing, invoking their status as Musketeers and threatening to involve both the harbour master and the Lieutenant de Police until they finally were able to come aboard and start their search of the ship.

But there was nothing to find, nothing at all, and that made the suspicion Athos had raised come roaring to life because of _how_ there was nothing to find. Empty cabins, an empty cargo hold, a mostly empty deck apart from a skeleton crew … Everything had clearly been cleaned recently. Cleaned out. Aramis stood in the middle of one of the rooms, hands on his hips, and observed the space around him. Maybe it was normal for a ship to be cleaned so thoroughly while in port but it didn't feel like it. This felt like covering up the evidence of what had been going on here.

Regardless of what they had or had not found, though, who they had not found was Porthos, and Aramis' chest ached again with the thought that they might be where he had been, but once again too late.

He turned around as Athos came up to him from behind, and the two shared a glance that told him their leader was thinking along the same lines. “Nothing,” Athos said, “and the absence of something is not valid proof of anything.” For once, his smooth tone did nothing to hide the frustration below it.

Aramis nodded, raking a hand through his hair. “Double down on the captain?” he suggested. It was really all they could do …

Over Athos' shoulder, he saw d'Artagnan enter the cabin but suddenly, the young Gascon stopped, looked down at his feet, and then stooped to pick something up.

“Athos,” d'Artagnan called out, sounding strangely strangled, “Aramis!”

Aramis was at his side in a flash and reached out for the small object d'Artagnan held out to them. His fingers trembled as he closed them around the familiar shape he had seen hanging from the cord around his friend's neck countless times.

Porthos' Saint Jude medallion.

He looked up at Athos who stared at the medallion in his hand, his mouth a grim line. “I think having another chat with our friend, the captain, would be a good idea,” he said, and all earlier frustration had slipped away to be replaced by a chill so deep Aramis felt it in his bones. He unconsciously straightened in response, firming his own mouth and nodding with a new sense of purpose.

The captain stood at the stern, his arms crossed. “I trust you've found my ship in perfect order, Musketeers?” he drawled when they came up to him.

Aramis scowled at him, but Athos only shrugged. “It's a very clean and orderly ship,” he replied and somehow made it sound like disapproval. “But your men seemed to have missed a spot.”

Aramis had to give the captain the credit he was due: He surely was a good card player because his face remained unmoved, and his voice smooth as he asked: “How so?”

“Do you know this medallion?” Athos asked, motioning for Aramis to produce it. He did so but did not surrender it to the man, just held it out for him to see.

The captain stepped closer, studying it, then looked up at Athos. “Of course. It belongs to one of my men,” he replied. Looking around, he waved to one of the sailors. “Hey, Luc! The gentlemen Musketeers have found your medallion!”

The man called Luc came ambling over, looking from his captain to the other men. “My medallion?” he asked, his voice slow and rough.

“Yeah, you told me it's been missing for a while, didn't you?” the captain insisted, gesturing to the small piece of jewellery Aramis still held in the palm of his outstretched hand.

The sailor looked closer at it, and some of the confusion seemed to lift off his face. “Ooh, yes, I been missin' it!” he exclaimed and made to grab it, but Aramis quickly retracted his hand, closing it into a fist around the medallion. d'Artagnan stepped forward and slightly put himself between Aramis and the man, distrust all over his face.

“Your name is Luc?” Athos asked slowly and exchanged a glance with Aramis. The marksman opened his fist again and took the medallion between two fingers, turning it around gently as he added: “Then why is there a P on its back?” And indeed, there it was, scratched in with thin, uncertain lines but unmistakably the first letter of their dear friend's name.

“Oh, he got it from this girl who's sweet on him,” the captain said quickly. “Her name's Pauline, right, Luc?”

“Uh, yes.” The man nodded.

d'Artagnan snorted, and Aramis threw him a sidelong glance. He could see that the Gascon thought about as much of Luc's abilities as a liar as he did – contrary to his captain, the young sailor was barely able to meet their eyes for more than a second, and he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, moving his hands constantly. Aramis turned his gaze to Athos, and a moment later, his friend gave him a short nod while motioning to d'Artagnan to come to his side as he turned to the captain to continue their questioning.

Aramis allowed himself a small smile at how well they understood each other, then let it widen slightly as he stepped at the sailor's side and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Pauline, eh?” he said conversationally. “That's a lovely name. I'm sure she's a very sweet girl.”

Luc swallowed and nodded, mumbling something in the affirmative.

“Planning to make her an honest woman soon?” the Musketeer continued, his voice still light and cheerful, while he steered the man a bit away with the arm around his shoulders.

“Uh, no, sir, not really,” the sailor stuttered.

“Oh, why not? You two surely make such a lovely couple, and you have good work here … I mean, marrying a sailor can be hard since you're gone for such long stretches of time, but she obviously cares a lot for you.” He played with the medallion in his free hand, winking at Luc.

“Uhm ...”

“A trading ship is a good place to work, isn't it? Regular, dependable, and you don't have to worry about what you're transporting, that's for your clients to decide, you just keep the ship running,” Aramis suggested.

Luc nodded eagerly. “That's right,” he agreed.

Aramis leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You know, we are not interested in your crew at all. We just want to find out more about who had last chartered this ship. You and your friends don't have anything to fear from us.”

The sailor relaxed and let out a shaky breath. “Uh, thanks?”

The next moment, Aramis' hand closed around the young man's wrist in a vice-like grip, and he swung him around so they were face to face. “However,” the marksman said, his tone suddenly hard, “I don't like it when people lie to me. So why don't we start over, and you tell me what you know about this medallion,” he held it up, “and the man it belongs to?”

Luc swallowed hard. “I-I actually haven't seen that thing before,” he admitted in a low whisper.

Aramis grinned, but it was sharp and flinty, without an ounce of friendliness to it. “Did you see a man, dark-skinned, about his height--” he pointed to d'Artagnan behind him who was saying something to the captain, gesturing animatedly, “but about twice as wide, short, curly hair, scar through his left eyebrow down his cheek?”

The young man shook his head. “I'm … I'm not sure. They look kinda all th' same to me, y'know?”

Aramis' felt the edges of the medallion dig into his palm and forced himself to relax. “That's why I told you about his scar, how he's built. There are not many who look like that, no matter what.”

Luc shrank back fearfully. “I'm tellin' you, I didn' get a lot of good looks at them. They'd be below deck an' we up here, right?”

Aramis sighed. It rang true, like little that Luc had said before had. “So where do they sell them?” he asked instead. “Where did the last cargo go to?” He felt sick at referring to them, to those men, maybe women, maybe children, maybe Porthos, as cargo.

“I dunno. They don' tell us stuff like that.” Luc set his jaw, and though he still looked nervous, Aramis believed him, as little as he wanted to.

He was about to turn away when the sailor added: “'Course, there's that group that escaped.” Aramis whipped around to him again. “What?”

Luc told him: “One day back on the river. A group of five or so. Fought their way out and jumped overboard.”

Aramis felt his breath leave him in a great whoosh. “Athos!” he called, striding back to his friends with large steps. “Ask him about the ones who fled,” he told him.

Athos looked at him sharply, then turned his attention back to the captain. “What do you know about that?” he asked.

“Luc said it was a group of five, about a day up the river,” Aramis supplied. He crossed his arms and stared down at the shorter man.

“I don't know what you're talking about!” the captain protested.

Athos slammed his hand down on the rail next to him. “I suggest you stop lying,” he said. “I told you before, we want the slavers, not you. But if I don't get answers now, I will happily take apart this ship and your whole crew.”

“And your man there all but admitted to the slaving in two minutes flat,” Aramis said with false cheerfulness. “Imagine what I could get out of him if I had more time!”

The captain glared at the sailor who stood behind them, with d'Artagnan's hand on his shoulder to keep him in place, and who looked like misery personified.

“The men that escaped,” Athos repeated, “was there a large man with them, about his height,” he gestured to d'Artagnan,” but twice as wide? With a scar through his left eyebrow?” Uncharacteristically, d'Artagnan did not object to the reference to his slender frame – though they usually claimed that he could fit into Porthos thrice – as he was too busy glaring at the captain. If looks could kill, the man would have toppled over on the spot. If the edge in Athos' gaze, sharp enough to draw blood, didn't slice him into ribbons first …

The captain visibly deflated. “Can't say, I didn't see them,” he replied reluctantly, “but Cernier talked about a soldier, a big bloke. Seems he was the one who got them out, killed a couple of Cernier's men.”

Aramis felt a flush of pride – of course, Porthos would not give in to this fate without a fight, and of course, he would try to get out as many others as possible. It was quickly followed by more worry, though. One day up the Seine – they must actually have passed the place where he had fled the ship. Had he made it to safety by now? One day was not enough to get back to Paris, especially on foot, but another town or village or even a farm with some sympathetic owners? Or was he still out there?

“Cernier?” Athos asked.

“He's the head of the operation,” the captain said.

“Where is he now?”

The man snorted. “Not here. Once we dropped anchor, he got a dozen men and horses and went back to where they got off the ship.” He smiled nastily. “Hope for the man you're looking for that Cernier doesn't find him.”

Athos went carefully still. “Why?” he asked.

“Well, he obviously wants his goods back. But your man made a lot of trouble for him, eh?” the captain explained, sounding far too smug, and Aramis' hands were itching to punch him. “Cost him five healthy adult males, not to count the people he killed, caused delays and problems … Cernier's not going to care about selling him after that. Gonna make an example of him, I guess.”

d'Artagnan's hand closed around Aramis' arm in an iron grip, and he looked at the Gascon askance, seeing the same fear he was feeling in his eyes. “We've got to find him!” the young Musketeer exclaimed.

“We will.” Athos shot them a reassuring glance, then turned back to the sailor. “Show me on the map where they escaped,” he demanded. The captain, obviously past any attempts to protest and mostly just hoping to get them out of his hair as soon as possible, agreed and took him to his cabin to do so.

When Athos returned, his mouth was set in a grim line of determination. “Aramis, you go back to the inn and get our things ready,” he ordered. “d'Artagnan and I will get us fresh horses. We meet back at the inn and leave immediately.”

Aramis nodded readily, his mind churning out worried thoughts at a dizzying speed. All he wanted was get to Porthos, and everything they could do to achieve that was fine in his books. “Alright, see you in a bit,” he agreed.

He quickly settled the bill for their unused room and made arrangements with the innkeeper to have their previous mounts transferred back to Paris in due time, then carried their bags outside to wait for the others. It was not long until Athos and d'Artagnan came into view astride their horses, one more for him trailing behind d'Artagnan on a lead rope.

As they drew closer, the marksman could not help but gape at the beasts. They had always known that Athos' pockets were somewhat deeper than those of Porthos and Aramis, even as he lived with an austerity bordering on self-deprivation, his one indulgence being the purchase of somewhat better wine on days when he did not only want to get drunk. Once they had learned of his noble background, it had made sense, and since then, Athos had been more willing to share his coin with them, no longer fearing the questions this might cause. But the horses made Aramis appreciate just how deep the former Comte's pockets were and how much he was willing to give for his brothers – they had to be some of the finest animals he had ever seen. Not as flashy as some of the horses in the King's stables, owned by nobles who cared more about looks than performance, their glossy coats spoke of good health nevertheless, their fine build and the animated way they struck the ground with their hooves, impatient to get going, of excellent breeding and a high spirit. They must have cost him half a fortune.

The sound of Athos clearing his throat, followed by d'Artagnan chuckling, made him aware that he was still staring, and he looked up to meet Athos' gaze sheepishly. “If you're quite finished?” the older Musketeer asked, slightly testily.

Aramis nodded and handed up Athos and d'Artagnan's bags, then took the reins of his horse from the Gascon and swung into the saddle. They carefully steered the horses through Le Havre's busy streets until, finally, the crowds thinned, and they could let their mounts speed up, which was very much in line with their riders' wishes.

But before they did, Aramis steered his horse close to Athos' and clapped a hand to his brother's arm, pulling him close enough that he could press a quick kiss to his cheek. “You're one of the most generous men I know, my friend,” he told him.

If one looked closely, one might have seen a faint blush rise in Athos' cheeks. Of course, d'Artagnan and Aramis absolutely did not do so. “It's fine,” he brushed the comment aside sharply. “Tréville will certainly help me get rid of them once we're back in Paris.”

“Get rid of them? But Athos--!” d'Artagnan protested, aghast, and Aramis chuckled. He turned his horse's head back in the direction they had just come from this morning, turning out the argument going on behind him, and sent his thoughts ahead: _Hold on, Porthos, we're coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been able to write much lately, so the buffer I had at the beginning is used up and updates will be slower and more irregular now. I hope you'll be patient and still follow along with this story! And I'd love to hear from you :).
> 
> I dunno why d'Artagnan's characterisation ended up being all Hi I Love Horses in this story but well ... Sorry, lad?


	13. Chapter 13

They ran, barely looking where they were going, just looking to put distance between themselves and the river and any possible pursuers. When, finally, they had to stop, Porthos was sorry to say that it was because of him. The wounds on his back and in his side were aching and still seeping blood, and from one moment to the other, his legs threatened to fold underneath him, and he stumbled to a stop. “I can't … can't anymore,” he gasped.

He was not ashamed of his weakness, not exactly. Too many years spent soldiering and too many wounds sustained, he knew how injuries weakened even the strongest of men, and that blood loss was a major factor. Aramis never let a physician drain them after an injury, saying that you could not cure a loss with more loss, and the most important thing was to keep the precious fluid within. So he was not ashamed. But he regretted it nevertheless, regretted it deeply that he might become a liability now. They should just go on without him.

When he said as much to Fadil, he thought the Moor might actually strike him.

They had come to a stop in the middle of the forest, little sunlight filtering down on them from above, and Fadil guided him to a fallen tree to help him sit. He then started to unwind the shirts of the guards he had taken from around his torso and to rip one of them into strips. “I'll try my best to clean them before I wrap them,” he told Porthos, his face tense and worried as he examined the Musketeer's wounds. Porthos nodded, too exhausted and busy trying to stop his head from spinning to say much. He sat quietly, letting the Moor tend to him and barely aware what the other two were doing, until Fadil was done and sat back on his haunches, and his head had cleared at least somewhat.

“Thanks,” he finally said to Fadil, sitting up carefully and grimacing slightly when the movement pulled at the wounds under the makeshift bandages. But he could tell that they had stopped the bleeding, at least. Small mercies.

Fadil bit his lip and shook his head. “I wish I could do more,” he said anxiously. “Going into the river didn't do you much good, I'm sure ...”

“You've done the best you could,” Porthos reassured him. “Though yeah, I know it'll cost me.” He took a deep breath. “That's why you should probably go on without me. I don't want to become a burden.”

“What?!” Fadil exclaimed sharply, his head coming up to stare at him, his eyes wide.

“I can't say but the chances I'll get weaker are high. Out here, you can't afford that. We don't have supplies, hardly any clothes, water, food. You need to save what you have,” Porthos argued. “And you don't need me so much any more here.” He gestured to Marcel, who was sitting close by and working on something – was he carving an arrow? At least he was whittling the end of a stick into a sharp point. “Farm boy here will probably do just as good as I would on showing you what to do in the forest to manage.”

Marcel looked up and raised an eyebrow. “I'm not sure what kind of farm boys you know,” he replied, sounding half amused, half put out. “I'm not a hunter or tracker – might not be city-born like you three, but I didn't grow up in a forest.”

Fadil interrupted, nostrils flaring, and Porthos thought numbly that he hadn't seen him angry before. He had been anxious, worried, determined, even amused and relaxed ever since Porthos had woken up next to him in that room, but never angry. “I don't care about that!” he exclaimed. He jumped up from his seat and started pacing in front of him. “Without you, we wouldn't have had any chance to get out of there! We'd not even been able to get out of the chains, even less the room, least of all off the ship! You did this, you helped us get out of there, you gave us our freedom back, and you think the moment you cease to be useful, or as much as you think you've got to be, we're just going to leave you behind?”

Porthos stared at him when Fadil's rant had ended, too shocked to say anything at first. “But ...” he finally said feebly, trailing off again. “What if those wounds get infected? When they're comin' after us, and I'm too weak to run?”

“What if, what if, what if not?” Fadil challenged him. “If that happens, we'll deal with it. But I won't just abandon you, just because of what might or might not happen!”

Porthos raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I got it,” he grumbled, “no more talkin' about leavin' anyone behind.” He shifted, swallowing a grunt. “Lemme at least get you out of these chains, finally. Think we can spare as much time now.” Looking around, he added with a frown: “An' where's Robert?”

Marcel used his stick to point in the direction they had come from. “He wanted to go scout and see if we're being followed,” he explained.

Porthos frowned. Robert was the one he felt most unsure about since the man was so quiet he could give Athos a run for his money – even if he seemed less gloomy than his brother. Still, Porthos felt he had the measure of Marcel and Fadil both, but the clerk's assistant from Paris was a bit of an enigma. He just hoped that even though he'd not shown a lot of signs of wilderness experience, he was good at scouting without letting himself be seen or captured.

He had freed Fadil and was just working on Marcel's manacles when the Parisian reappeared, moving more quietly that Porthos would have given him credit for previously. “There's two men following us,” he reported while he unceremoniously dropped down beside Marcel. “They are still a ways back but I didn't know how to cover any tracks we might have left. They're from the ship – I recognised one of them, one of the slavers.”

Porthos grunted and turned towards him as Marcel's manacles fell away. “Gimme your hands,” he ordered while he mulled this over. Two men – did the slavers really think they could recapture four men, five if they hadn't noticed Jean's absence in their group after they had left the river, that easily, after they had killed or incapacitated, what, seven or eight men during their escape? If so, their arrogance was even greater than he had thought. He shook his head at himself – he didn't really believe that. So, what else? Tracking them until the rest of the slavers could catch up to them? That seemed to be the most likely explanation. So there were two options available to the fugitives as he could see – evade or hide from them, or bring them down so they could give no information on their whereabouts to anyone else.

“Seen how they were armed?” he asked when the first lock popped open.

“Swords,” Robert answered without hesitation. “Pistols too, I think.”

“Hm,” Porthos snorted, looking up from his task to his companions. He had a sword and a knife. Both Marcel and Robert had knives. Fadil had nothing. The pistols Marcel and he had were useless, Marcel's shot spent on the ship, no balls, wadding and powder, apart from the wet stuff in his pistol spoiled by the river. They were four, but they were wet, cold, tired, and he himself was injured. He still thought they could take two men, but it wasn't as sure a win as he'd liked. So maybe trying to lose them would be better …

He posed the question to the others once Robert was free and Fadil had tied the manacles in the remaining shirt. You never knew, Porthos supposed, though he would have gladly seen them gone.

Not surprisingly, Fadil and Robert voted for evading the men while Marcel wanted to take the fight to them. Porthos sighed. “'m gonna have a look,” he decided. Standing pulled a hiss from him but the rest had helped – he didn't move quite as easily as usual, but he'd live, he thought to himself wryly.

Marcel tagged along, Robert going ahead to where he had seen the ship's men – and he was not entirely surprised when he noticed that Fadil was following. Well, it was probably for the best if it came to a fight, or maybe not, considering the Moor wasn't a fighter. Porthos waited for him to catch up and handed him his knife. “So you got somethin' to defend yourself, at least,” he told him.

After they had walked about ten minutes, Robert stopped, holding up a hand, then gestured to them to move ahead more quietly. Soon enough, they heard the sounds of men moving through the underbrush, seemingly cautiously but without the effort to avoid sounds altogether. Porthos motioned to the others to stay back while he crept forwards. Two men came into view, slowly making their way through the forest, their eyes on the ground, hands on their swords. Porthos thought he recognised one of them, too, a broad fellow with a crooked nose and thick, unkempt hair. The other one was unfamiliar but looked as of the same stock as the other slavers.

He pulled back a bit and looked around for the others, only to find that Marcel was already at his side. “We can take them,” the farm boy hissed, his knife held at the ready in his hand. “I'll take one, and you the other!”

Porthos frowned, unsettled that the young man who'd originally been so shocked at him killing the first slaver back in the hold of the ship seemed to have taken a liking to the taste of blood. He shook his head, but even as he opened his mouth to say something, the sounds the men had been making ceased. A moment later, they were replaced by another one he knew all too well: The whisper of a sword leaving its sheath. “Shit,” he breathed and drew his sword. Listening again, the men were in motion once more, and they were drawing closer. He looked over to Robert and Fadil, a few steps away, and voicelessly mouthed “Be ready!” to them, hoping they would get the message anyway, by his shift in stance if nothing else. He nodded to Marcel and pressed his back against a tree behind him as he waited with bated breath. Maybe they would pass them by …

No such luck, though, as one of the men gave a shout, and Porthos didn't hesitate any longer but lunged out into the open and quickly closed the distance to one of the men to engage him. He did not see the other man, the one who had shouted, nor could he spare the time to look for his companions – the man he was fighting was less skilled with his sword but also less tired and not carrying any injuries. For some time, all Porthos could do was hold him at bay, the clanging of their blades and their heavy breathing reverberating around them. Porthos realised the slaver was trying to herd him back against a tree to trap him but as he moved back to evade him, his foot caught on a tree root, and he stumbled. He fell heavily on his backside, and his opponent grinned wildly, raising his arms to follow up with a vicious downswing. It was only a split second but just enough: Porthos swiftly brought up his sword and lashed out. His sword buried itself deeply in the man's gut, and for a moment, the man remained standing, with an almost comical expression on his face as he stared down at the steel skewering him. Porthos yanked his sword back, and the man fell forward, following the pull of the weapon sliding from his flesh. He landed on Porthos, and the Musketeer was driven to the ground by his heavy weight, a guttural moan ripped from his throat as his wounded back struck the ground.

For a moment, he could just lay there, panting, the energy he had recovered earlier spent again, until the sound of steel on steel pulled him back to the present. The others! He pushed against the dead man on top of him with a deep growl to shift his body off him, then sat up to see what was happening.

A few paces away, Marcel was battling the other slaver, but with only a knife, all he could do was fend off the other man's longer reach. Porthos struggled to find his feet, to go and help him – where were Fadil and Robert? – but before he was fully upright, Fadil appeared behind Marcel's adversary out of the woods like a shadow, and he brought down a bundle of dirty fabric on the man's head. Porthos thought he could hear the man's skull crack – he certainly could see his eyes roll back and his legs fold beneath him. A laugh bubbled up in him when he realised what had happened – what Fadil had used to take the man down –, and he let it, even if there was a slightly hysterical edge to it. There had been precious little reason to laugh these days, so if he wanted to laugh at the irony of a slaver being knocked out by the very shackles with which he'd bound them, he would.

Then Fadil was at his side, eyeing him warily, as his laughter tapered off. “Porthos?” The Moor murmured tentatively. “Are you alright, big man?”

Porthos chuckled a few last times and then stilled. “'m alright,” he finally said, voice rough. “An' not losin' my mind, my friend, no worries,” he added, seeing Fadil's worried gaze. “Just appreciated that move you pulled there. Nicely done.”

Fadil shuddered. “It didn't feel like something to laugh at,” he said in a low voice. “I … Know that I'm beyond thankful for what you've done for us, but I don't want to be part of your world.”

Porthos held his gaze and nodded. “I know,” he simply answered. Then he held his hand out for the Moor to take and pushed himself to his feet with Fadil's help. “Marcel? Robert?” he asked, realising with a start that he hadn't even seen the latter since the start of the fight.

Fadil's face clouded over with new worry as he turned. “Marcel?” he called out.

“Here!” the lad called back, raising a hand from where he was bending over something, and the sight made Porthos' blood freeze. Not Robert, too … But then Marcel helped the older man sit up, and Porthos blew out a breath. Robert looked unsteady, holding onto Marcel's arm tightly, but he was obviously alive.

“He got knocked out right at the start,” Fadil explained as they went over to the other two men. “He tripped over a root trying to avoid the slaver swinging at him, and I think he knocked his head against something.”

Porthos hummed something indistinguishable in reply. Bad luck but not as bad as it could have been. He looked on as Marcel relinquished Robert to Fadil's care – at some point, the Moor seemed to have become the unofficial medic of their ragtag group – and turned his attention to the unconscious slaver. The young man looked at him pensively, gripping the hilt of his knife tightly, and Porthos instinctively reached out and gripped his arm. “Don't,” he said in a low voice.

Marcel turned towards him, surprise and something like betrayal in his gaze. “What?!” he asked. “These men took us! They took us from everything, and they wanted to drag us back now! He deserves to die!” he hissed.

Porthos held his gaze, as steady as he could. “I know,” he replied. “But I'm not tellin' you for him. I'm tellin' you for you.”

He gestured back at the man he'd just killed. “I won't shed a tear for him or any I killed on that ship. But there's a difference between fightin' and what you've been thinkin' about.” He studied the face of the man before him, all youthful indignation and fury, and was reminded of another young man, storming into the garrison with fire in his eyes. He quickly shoved the longing surging up in him back down. “I know you mightn't understand but it's about honour. And about bein' a soldier, a fighter – not a murderer.” He hoped he still was the former and not the latter, though some times in all those years fighting to survive and especially the last few days, he wondered.

Marcel blew out a breath and relaxed, shoulders dropping. “Alright, I understand,” he said. “But I'm taking his stuff.” He knelt down at the man's side and removed his pistol and supplies, riffled through his pockets.

Porthos chuckled. “That's fair,” he allowed. He turned back to Robert and Fadil. “How is he?” he asked.

Fadil looked up and gave him a short smile. “He's got quite the goose egg, but otherwise, he's fine,” he replied. He stood, pulling the older man up with him. Robert still looked a bit dazed but shook his head, once fully upright, and gave them all an attempt at a reassuring smile.

“Alright, then get whatever you need, we got to move on,” Porthos said, moving back to the dead slaver to pick up his pistol and shot as well. He handed the man's sword to Fadil who looked at the weapon with distaste but affixed it to his waist with an air of resignation.

Soon after, they moved on. Running was out of the question now but they walked steadily. As the hours progressed, Porthos tried to move them in a manner that would make them harder to track, over some harder ground whenever they found some, and when they found a small stream, they waded along it for some time after sating their thirst. They ate some early berries they found along the way – the bread off the ship Fadil had taken had been spoiled by their swim in the river, so there was little else for them to eat.

By the time dusk fell, Porthos was reduced to stumbling in exhaustion, and deep lines of pain were etched around Robert's eyes and mouth. They found a place to sleep in some thicker underbrush that would hide them from view and spent a rather uncomfortable night on the cold, hard ground.

The first day after their escape, Porthos woke to a deep warmth simmering in his back and side, his thoughts foggy. Fadil made unhappy noises when he removed the bandages around the Musketeer's back to check the wounds, but there was little he could do but replace the worst of the dirty bandages with the last of the fabric strips he had.

They walked all day again, but Porthos could not say where to. There was nothing but forest, and there was always one of the others at his side to catch him when he stumbled. Later, they chanced to light a fire, and Marcel shot a rabbit. The smell of the animal's blood turned Porthos' stomach, but he forced himself to eat what Fadil gave him. If he was to have any chance to get through this, he needed all the sustenance he could get. By God's grace, it even stayed down.

He spent a restless night, alternating between shivering and sweating, and on the second day, it was all he could do to rise and walk where the others led him, one of them supporting him the whole time. When they stopped for the night, he curled up into a ball of misery, as if he could escape the fire burning in his back by turning into himself.

The third day, he was woken by violent cursing. It took him far too long to identify the voice as Marcel's, and for the life of him, he could not grasp what he was upset about. And when Fadil tried to get him to his feet, he found that he could not move.

It was on the third day that the slavers were upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr: [Sternenblumen](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sternenblumen) (main blog) or [Flowers Stories](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/flowers-stories) (writing blog)
> 
> Please let me know what you think - I would love to hear from you (kudos, comments or whatever, it's all good :))!


	14. Chapter 14

The horses the Musketeers had acquired in Le Havre were excellent beasts, and by the end of the day leaving the port city, they reached the spot the captain had shown Athos. From there, it was easy enough to track the slavers – the fleeing men might not have left such easily visible tracks, but those pursuing them were a large group moving slowly. After a short rest to grab a few hours of sleep, it took them until midday until the group came into view.

D'Artagnan was seething, chomping at the bit to confront them, but Athos held him back. After all, they had not done anything that might have given the Musketeers cause to question them. Aramis was barely less impatient than the Gascon but knew that their leader was right – it was best to follow them until they found Porthos and the other men, even if it was hard.

Athos kept them at a walk behind the group, at a careful distance, and occasionally sent d'Artagnan as their best tracker – in Porthos' absence – ahead to veer off the path a bit to look for possible signs of the fugitives the slavers might have missed. The men riding ahead of them seemed relaxed enough, talking and cursing in rough tones. From what they could see, most of the men were some kind of hired fighters and thugs. There was one man in the midst of them who looked angry and focused, quite obviously the leader – Cernier, as the captain had called him. The group moved slowly, with one or two men periodically going off into the woods off the narrow road they were following. Athos' guess was that the fugitives were keeping off the road but were close enough that the men were more comfortable not moving through the underbrush in a group as large as theirs.

They'd been following them for a few hours when Aramis' sharp eyes were the first to spot a change in the group. Easy banter quieted down, postures straightened up, and hands strayed towards weapon belts when one of the men came back out of the woods and talked to their leader. “I think we're close,” Aramis told his brothers.

Athos scrutinised the group and nodded. “Stay sharp,” he told them. “And let's try to get ahead now. Maybe we can get there before they do.”

They guided their horses off the road and into the forest, speeding up so they could pull level with the group while keeping the lookout for signs of the fugitives.

The group of slavers reached them first, though. The sound of raised voices drew the Musketeers the rest of the way, and they found them at the edge of a small clearing, most of the men with their pistols drawn and pointed across the clearing at a pair of dark-skinned men.

Aramis' heart sank when he realised none of them was Porthos. One was older, with dark hair cropped close to the head and a slender build, the other a broad-shouldered young man with a halo of dark curls. Then the older man stepped forward, and Aramis realised he was standing in front of someone on the ground, shielding him protectively. And it was … Aramis felt a weight lift off his shoulders when he recognised the large frame of his brother, but it was quickly replaced by a different one when he saw that the man was struggling to sit up, and his upper body was swaddled in dirty and torn bandages.

“You have one chance.” The man that had to be Cernier was speaking. “If you come quietly, you will live, but I have no compunction to shoot you where you stand.”

The young man took a step forward. “Never,” he replied coolly. He held two pistols in his hands and levelled them at the leader. “We're done being quiet.”

Though the older man held a sword as if he only knew which end was the pointy one, his gaze was trained on the other men without wavering. Behind him, Porthos had made it to his knees but his head hung low, his arms limp at his sides. Aramis ached to get to him but forced himself to look away from him and to Athos.

Athos looked from Aramis to d'Artagnan and drew his pistols, silently nodding at them when they mirrored his action. Another round of silent communication passed between them, and then they shifted as one towards the group to take aim.

Before them, the leader was speaking again. Despite his threats, he seemed unwilling to slaughter the “goods” where they stood. Aramis blended out his voice and sighted along his pistol barrel. He loosed his shot first, immediately followed by the double crack of d'Artagnan and Athos' pistols. He switched his second pistol to his right and shot again, then holstered the empty pistols and drew his sword, spurring his horse forwards, trusting that his two friends, slightly slower in handling their pistols, would be right behind him.

The clearing had erupted into chaos at their shots. Several men lay beneath their horses, a few of them motionless, but the Musketeers concentrated on those still in the saddle and moving. Aramis' eyes could not find the leader at first glance, and he only allowed his eyes to stray to the small group of fugitives for a split second. The young man just loosed a shot from his pistol, then dropped it and drew a sword. The other man still stood in front of Porthos. Aramis prayed that they would be able to protect him and themselves until the three Musketeers had dealt with the group. Then the first of the slaver's hired men met his challenge, and he pushed all other thoughts aside.

Their initial volley had cut down the number of their adversaries enough that they could make short work of the rest. Soon enough, the last of the men surrendered with Athos' blade at his throat, and the Musketeers stood breathing heavily. Aramis looked around at the two others. “Are you alright?” he asked. Athos just nodded, while d'Artagnan answered: “I'm fine. And you?” Aramis gave him the ghost of a smile, as he replied: “I'm alright.” There were the usual little nicks and bruises, and his muscles were sore after the exertion, but those were all things they had become accustomed to. He looked at their leader, and Athos did not need to ask what he wanted. “Go to him,” he told the medic.

Aramis felt as if he was an arrow finally released from its bow, and he hurried across the clearing in long strides.

And stopped short when a blade was lifted, its tip against his chest. The younger of the two strangers had stepped forward and was glowering at him. “Who are you?” he demanded to know.

Aramis raised his hands in a placating gesture. “My name is Aramis,” he replied, as calmly as he could. “I'm a Musketeer,” he turned slightly to display his pauldron, “and I'm his brother.” He looked past the man and his blade to Porthos. “Please, let me go to him.”

Indecision and wariness warred on the young man's face until he finally lifted the sword from Aramis' chest and stepped aside. The older man had knelt down at Porthos' side and was supporting him. He looked up at Aramis with a painful mixture of hope and desperation in his eyes. “Can you help him?” he asked. “Please ...”

The medic swallowed. “I will,” he promised. He knelt down on Porthos' other side and reached out a hand to his face. He was almost surprised that it did not shake.

“Porthos?” he breathed. The heat his fingers encountered was shocking. Porthos' skin was dry to the touch, which was even worse – as was the fact that he barely reacted to his name, his gaze unfocused and clouded by pain and fever, even though he held himself up stubbornly as if his mind was still trying to react to the earlier threat but he was lacking the energy to do more than this failed attempt to rise.

Aramis took a deep breath. “Help me lay him down,” he asked the stranger. “Do you know where he is injured?” Over his shoulder, he called: “Athos, d'Artagnan, I need my kit!”

The older man looked down at Porthos sorrowfully as he carefully pushed him to the ground. Porthos made a short, distressed sound, trying to resist, but after only a moment, he yielded to the touch. “He was whipped a few days ago,” the stranger said, “and there's a long cut on his left side.”

Aramis nodded slightly, his hands moving with customary ease to loosen the filthy bandages around Porthos' torso. After the short moment of resistance, the large man was pliant beneath their hands, seemingly still dimly aware but too far gone with fever to react to his brother's presence or their manhandling. The medic shoved away his fear when the bandages fell away and revealed the wound on the front, red and puffy and weeping a cloudy fluid. He gestured to the other man to help him turn Porthos onto his side.

The sight and smell of Porthos' back almost made him gag. The wounds themselves had not been too bad originally, he supposed, but infection had set in deeply, and they were brimming with pus.

“I tried to clean them,” the older man told him, sounding apologetical, “after we went into the river. I don't think I did much good.”

Aramis flashed him a brittle smile. “You never know,” he replied. “It might have bought him some time, at the very least. No matter what, I'm thankful for you helping him.”

d'Artagnan appeared at his side and handed him his kit. “What can I do?” the Gascon asked anxiously, his gaze on Porthos' wan face.

The marksman sent him back to their horses for their water skins and set to cleaning out the wounds with grim determination. The other black man – Fadil, he told him at some point – assisted him quietly. D'Artagnan came back a bit later, bringing their water skins, and then Athos joined them. His expression was dark as he took in Porthos' almost motionless form. “How is he?” he asked.

Aramis shook his head. “His fever is high, and he needs water desperately,” he replied. “I don't know--” he broke off and took a deep breath. “The infection is deep.” He met Athos' eyes and knew that his friend would understand from his bleak tone what he dared not voice. A quiet curse at his side showed that d'Artagnan had understood, too.

Athos nodded sharply. “Should we make camp? Or take him to an inn or village?” he asked, his tone clipped.

The medic took off his hat and buried a hand in his hair, tugging at the dark curls. He was loath to move the ill man more than necessary, but a place to stay in a more civilised area would mean access to more water than they had in their water skins, and possibly a physician who knew how to help Porthos better than he could. Making his decision, he said: “Let me finish this and make up a poultice, then we should find some place with plenty of water. That's what he'll need most.”

“Alright,” Athos said, “tell us what you need, and d'Artagnan and I will get some of the horses ready. Can you ride?” He directed the question to the two fugitives who were standing a bit apart from them, looking on apprehensively.

The young Mulatto simply nodded while Fadil answered: “Not well but I can stay in the saddle if you don't go too fast.”

“Good.” Athos gave them a nod. “We'll leave in one hour.”

Aramis focused back on Porthos' injuries, cleaning them as deeply as he could, dousing them with alcohol and trying not to let fear take over at how still Porthos was despite his rough treatment.

Fadil joined him again, and Aramis directed him to wet some cloths and wipe down Porthos' burning face and body while he crushed some herbs and mixed them into a thick paste with which he filled the wounds. He wrapped Porthos' torso again with fresh linen, then sat back and wiped his brow. It was not much but it was all he could do for his brother right now.

He looked around and found that Athos and d'Artagnan had been busy as well. In addition to their horses, they had readied two more who stood with empty saddles. Four of the slaver's men shared two horses between them, their arms and legs bound and showing different levels of awareness. Apparently, his two friends had bound their injuries, so there was no immediate threat of them passing away, and Aramis was happy to trust in their ability to do so, so they would not waste any more time on those men.

Athos and the young man whose name was Marcel hoisted Porthos up onto Aramis' horse, placing him in front of the marksman. He encircled Porthos' waist with his arms and picked up his reins. It was awkward to have him in front of him but there was no way Porthos would have stayed seated on the horse behind him. And when Athos had attempted to suggest a different arrangement, Aramis had just shot him a flat look that dissuaded him from any further discussion. Not that there were any real options – the difference in height between him and d'Artagnan was so slight as to not matter at all in these circumstances, and Athos was shorter than both of them, if a bit sturdier. As were the two fugitives, and even if not, Aramis would not have entrusted his brother to them now, no matter how thankful he was for what they had done for Porthos up to now. No, Porthos belonged in his arms, his care right now.

They set off at the fastest trot they could manage. Aramis let the horse choose its path, more or less, just steering it with a press of a thigh or a nudge of a boot here and there. His main focus was on the hot, silent presence in front of him that was Porthos. His lids were still open by a slit, showing a sliver of white, still seemingly unable to let go of his consciousness entirely because of some perceived danger, perhaps, even though the only danger was the fever raging ín his body. But the dark eyes were unseeing, only moving spasmodically now and then when a fever dream seemed to grip him momentarily. Aramis tried to rouse him a few times but without success, and finally, his words devolved into an almost meaningless litany, prayers mixing with him telling Porthos about their search, retelling some long-ago adventures, hardly aware what he was saying – he did not know why but it felt necessary to anchor his friend with his voice, to give him something he might use to pull himself back from the darkness threatening to swallow him. Because they had not found Porthos just to lose him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Bad Things Happen Bingo card over on Tumblr, so if you want to leave me some prompts, please have a look at it [here](https://flowers-stories.tumblr.com/post/185558591624/here-is-your-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo)!
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this part, and I'd love to hear from you :).


	15. Chapter 15

Darkness was already falling when they finally found a small inn. You couldn't really call the few houses surrounding it a village, but the inn was welcoming weary travellers with lit windows and a stable boy eagerly running up to them to offer to take their horses. Athos and d'Artagnan took charge of their prisoners – two of which had revived enough to bombard them with curses and dark looks – which left Aramis, Marcel and Fadil with the task of getting Porthos inside and securing rooms for them.

The innkeeper's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the ragged and filthy state of Aramis' companions – or maybe it had something to do with the three men's dark skin – and widened fearfully when Aramis asked for a room to lock up the prisoners. But the pauldron of a King's Musketeer opens many doors, and so a servant was sent to see Athos and d'Artagnan to a small shed behind the stables in which to house their charges, and Aramis and the two former fugitives could soon lay Porthos down in a small but tidy room.

He sent Marcel to fetch water while Fadil easily assumed the role of assistant again as the medic removed Porthos' filthy breeches and boots. He decided to leave the freshly applied bandages in place, for now, to give the poultice more time to work and sank down on the thin mattress next to Porthos' head, stroking the dark curls.

At one point during the ride, Porthos' eyes had closed, at last, fully surrendering to unconsciousness, and Aramis didn't know what he had felt seeing it – relief that he was no longer spending his weakened body's reserves on fighting for consciousness, or dread that he had fallen into an abyss from which they could no longer pull him back. He tried to rouse him again now but there was no reaction, not even a twitch or furrowing of the dark brows …

Marcel came back with two pails of water, followed by Athos and d'Artagnan, and Aramis stood up again. Now he could begin the fight for his brother's life in earnest … He looked to his two friends. “Can one of you go and ask around for a physician?” he asked. Apart from the fact that he trusted these two men above everyone else, he did not want to ask Fadil or Marcel – he could feel his own exhaustion settling into his limbs heavily and could well imagine how it had to weigh down the two former fugitives even more. And he hadn't forgotten the innkeeper's looks, either.

d'Artagnan nodded and said: “Sure.” He was already turning towards the door, but Athos stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Let me,” he told the young Musketeer, and without waiting for a reply, he slipped from the room. The corners of Aramis' mouth twitched at the action. It was rare these days but they all knew that their young friend sometimes still felt a bit insecure in their group, the last to arrive and make his place among three older men with such a long shared history, and he had noticed that Athos was making an attempt to reassure the Gascon by including him specifically, letting him take him home after an evening at the tavern and telling Porthos and Aramis to stay with their nightly pursuits, giving him tasks he knew d'Artagnan would enjoy, and then things like this, taking on tasks himself to ensure the young man could stay with their other friends.

d'Artagnan looked after the departing man for a moment until the door closed, then shrugged and came over to the bed. “What can I do?” he asked, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

Aramis gave him a short smile. “Get some food,” he replied, “for all of us. Some wine and candles – it's going to be a long night.” While he spoke, he was already wetting pieces of cloth and folded the first over Porthos' forehead.

“Alright.” d'Artagnan's gaze lingered on Porthos' face before he turned to leave, and Aramis turned his whole attention to his patient. He wiped down his body carefully, removing one layer of grime and dirt even if more still remained, then returned to his head and opened the slack jaw, dribbling water from a wet cloth into his mouth and massaging his throat until he swallowed. He did not know what Marcel and Fadil were doing and at the moment, he frankly didn't care. All that counted was giving Porthos the care he needed.

d'Artagnan came back at some point, and Aramis was vaguely aware that someone took away one of the buckets when the water got too dark from the dirt he was washing off Porthos' body as he went, returning it shortly after with fresh water, but he didn't stop alternating between wiping down the dark, dry skin and dripping water into the ill man's mouth until Athos got back.

Their leader's face was grim. “No physician,” he reported. “Not even a midwife or someone familiar with herbal medicine ...”

Aramis let his head fall forward, running a hand through his curls as he felt an additional weight settle on his shoulders. So it was his knowledge alone that had to be enough. “Damn,” he sighed before raising his head again and replying: “Well, it can't be helped. Thank you.”

Athos held his gaze for a moment, and there was something testing in how he looked at him until he finally just nodded. He sat down at the table for a meal while d'Artagnan, who had eaten with the two other men after getting food, joined the medic at Porthos' bedside. He picked up a cloth and took up a place opposite of Aramis, starting to mirror his actions of running the wet cloth over Porthos' skin in slow, soothing strokes. Aramis gave him a short smile and picked up his own cloth again, too.

For a while, silence settled over the room, only broken by the sloshing of water in the buckets, the sounds of men eating and resting. Finally, Athos sat back and directed both his sharp gaze and his words to the two dark-skinned men. “If you don't mind, I would like to hear your story,” he requested politely, even though with Athos, even a request could sound suspiciously like an order.

The two former fugitives exchanged a look, then Marcel shrugged and made a “go ahead” gesture to Fadil. The older man fumbled a bit for words but then launched into recounting of how he had been taken on his way home and how he'd woken up below deck in a small room which soon started to fill up until Porthos was brought in last after the whipping, unconscious.

“There was a sixth man,” he mentioned, “but he'd been beaten, like Porthos, and he died in the first night.” d'Artagnan met Aramis' gaze over the body of their brother between them, and he saw his own horror reflected in the younger man's eyes. They could have lost him like that, in the belly of a slaver's ship, and they never would have known … The Gascon interrupted his ministrations which he had kept up without pause just like Aramis, taking Porthos' hand to raise it to his face and press a kiss to the dark skin. Aramis did not know whether to smile or weep at the tenderness of the gesture; in the end, he did neither but turned to share a look with Athos, pulling him into the circle of their brotherhood even though he was sitting a bit apart.

Fadil, oblivious, continued: “Porthos told us he could get us out of there if we helped him, and so on the second day, when one of the men brought us food and water, he--” a short expression of distress flitted over the man's features, “he strangled him with the chains … Then he took his knife and picked our locks. He and Jean took down the other men that came to check until we were all free.”

“Jean?” Athos asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“One of the others,” the Moor said. “He was wounded by a slaver, he nearly took off his hand. He seemed to be doing alright while we fought our way out but when we jumped overboard--”

“He was just gone, from one moment to the next,” Marcel interrupted him, the anguish on his face clearly visible, “and I couldn't find him.” There were raw grief and guilt in the young man's voice, and Fadil reached out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“There was nothing we could do,” he said, ostensibly as much for Marcel's sake as for the rest of his audience. “They were stopping the ship to send men after us, so we ran. When we stopped so Porthos could rest and I could bind his wounds, Robert discovered there were two men on our trail. We took them down and then went on.”

“Robert was the fifth man?” Athos asked. “What happened to him?”

“He left,” Marcel spat, the earlier grief erased from his features by a surge of fury, “vanished this night. The traitor!”

Fadil sighed and raised his shoulders in a helpless gesture. “By yesterday, it was obvious Porthos was fading fast and wouldn't be able to go on soon. Robert wanted to go for help but we didn't want to split up … We argued, and the next morning, he was gone.”

Marcel snorted bitterly. “For help? All he cared about was saving his own skin! I've seen how he looked at Porthos! He must have told the slavers about us, how else could they find us just after he's gone?”

“Marcel!” Fadil shook his head. “That's not true, and you know it.”

Marcel opened his mouth to argue back, but Athos forestalled him with a curt gesture. “He didn't tell the slavers,” he said. “We'd been following them for a few hours, and no one came to speak with them. They were following your trail.”

“Then he was just looking to save his skin,” the young Mulatto grumbled. Fadil looked like he was about to argue, but in the end, he just shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe he went for help, maybe he didn't. Anyway, we couldn't get Porthos to his feet in the morning, so we had to stay where we were. And then the slavers came, and then you lot.” He gave them a small smile. “Thank you for rescuing us. I was thinking Porthos had to be special but it seems all Musketeers are such ferocious fighters.”

“Oh no, Porthos _is_ special,” Aramis murmured while he ran a hand through Porthos' dark curls. They didn't even know half of what made this man special … For what felt like the millionth time, his heart hurt at how still he was – Porthos was never this still when sleeping, if only for the raucous snores he usually filled the room with. But despite all their ministrations, he had barely shown any reaction over the last few hours apart from the occasional tremor racking his frame, and worry was a heavy stone lodged in Aramis' chest.

Silence descended on the room for a moment until Athos dispelled it with a shake of his head. “Thank you for telling us,” he said to the two men. “I think Aramis got another room?” He looked to the marksman for confirmation and got a nod in return. “You can use that – go get some sleep, we will take care of Porthos.”

Fadil hesitated. “Are you sure? We could help,” he asked.

Aramis gave him a warm smile. “You've done so much for him already that we can't ever thank you enough,” he replied. “Now it's our turn, and you need to rest.”

The two men exchanged looks, clearly conflicted, but while Marcel finally nodded and turned towards the door, Fadil still lingered behind. “Would you wake us?” he asked in a low voice, “if--” The words he didn't say were hanging heavily in the air between them, and Aramis swallowed dryly.

“Of course,” he finally said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Of course we will wake you if it comes to that.”

Fadil smiled sadly. “Thank you,” he said as he moved to follow Marcel.

Aramis stared down at his hands, the piece of cloth caught in a white-knuckled grip, resting against the ridged plane of Porthos' belly, until he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to meet Athos' eyes. Their leader did not speak but his gaze said it all, and Aramis straightened up in response. Across from them, d'Artagnan took a deep breath and said, in a somewhat forcefully cheerful tone: “Well, Porthos knows better than to think he can escape from us as easily as he did from those slavers, right?”

Aramis chuckled. “Indeed, we're far less easy to get rid of.”

“Don't I know it,” Athos remarked dryly as he sat back down at the table and poured himself a cup of wine. The next moment, he made an indignant sound of protest when the cloth Aramis had been holding slapped him in the face. The sound – almost a squawk – and sight set off d'Artagnan and Aramis, and their laughter loosened some of the tension in the room. Aramis snatched up a new piece of cloth and wet it, and they settled into a rhythm that was comforting in its familiarity, light banter breaking up the silence from time to time.

It was a long night, and so was the next day, and the next night. Aramis worked incessantly, wiping down Porthos' body, again and again, wrapping him in wet, cold linens, dripping water into his mouth … The other two were almost always at his side, helping to hold Porthos down when fever dreams seized him, his head rolling wildly and garbled words falling from his lips, fetching fresh water and cloth when things quieted down. Only when he could no longer ignore their worried looks, Aramis grudgingly abandoned his post at Porthos' side for a few hours to allow them to take over, and his sleep was short and restless, afraid of waking and finding his brother gone. Not that his other two brothers were faring much better …

And still the fever raged on.

* * *

_Porthos' dreams were strange and dark, full of heat and pain. He was treading water, searching for someone, waiting for them to emerge from the water, though he could not remember who … There were shackles on his wrists, dragging him down, down, down into a darkness that rose like water, or maybe like blood. Then he was a child again, and the shackles were on his mother's arms. Men whose faces he could not see were dragging her away while she pleaded with him to run, to hide._

_There were short stretches when peace seemed to come, leaving him floating freely, and for some reason, this almost frightened him more than the dark dreams._

_But soon enough, the darkness swallowed him again to the crack of a whip. It was skin dark as his own under the whip's leather, but then it was changing, and the whip was carving bloody welts into pale skin so familiar to him, as the tanned tone it took on next, then acquiring an olive cast to it, and then the whip bit into his own flesh again …_

_And always, always, there was the weight of shackles, the crack and pain of the whip, and a darkness that he felt he would never escape, that had been waiting in his very being all this life and was now rising to swallow him whole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porthos wanted to have a say, too. And things continue to be hard for our boys ... 
> 
> I hope you're still hanging in there with them and enjoying this tale! As always, I'd love to hear from you :).


	16. Chapter 16

On the third day, Aramis sent Athos on the search for a physician again. So far, the medic's attempts to help Porthos had not shown any effects – the fever burned, and all they could do was working continuously on keeping Porthos cool and getting as much water into him as possible. Athos was gone for a whole day as he had to travel to several towns and villages until he was successful in locating a doctor willing to accompany him.

The physician was a small, white-haired old man who brought with him an atmosphere of brisk practicality as he came bustling into the room late in the evening and said nothing apart from his name – Monfort – and that he was a physician before going over to the bed holding the patient and setting about examining him. Aramis threw a questioning look at Athos who had entered the room behind the old man, and his brother returned it with a nod. So the medic sat down and observed the man, answering his questions whenever he threw them out to the room at large.

Monfort's hands were firm but gentle as he felt Porthos' forehead and peeled back the bandages stuck to the wounds on his back still brimming with pus. He tutted unhappily at the state of his lips that were dry and cracked, no matter how often Aramis had dabbed an ointment on them. Finally, he stepped back and turned around, sharp green eyes meeting five anxious stares. “You need to be more aggressive,” he told them. “If it's true what you've said,” he gave Athos a short nod, “he's been holding up better than you might expect with this fever, but if it doesn't break soon, he will die.”

And there it was, the stark truth staring them into the eye. Next to Aramis, d'Artagnan made a small, wounded noise, and Athos stiffened visibly. Aramis forced himself to take a deep breath and relax the fingers that had unconsciously come up to grasp his crucifix.

“What do you suggest?” he asked the physician, almost proud that his voice did not waver.

“An ice bath,” the man said decisively. “Cooling compresses and things like that won't be able to make a dent in it, you're just delaying the inevitable that way.”

Marcel growled at the man's insensitive remark but Aramis held up a hand to quiet his protest. “Don't you think the shock could be too much?” he asked. “His heart ...”

The physician made a dismissive gesture. “He seems to be strong,” he said. “But if you wait too long, he won't be anymore.”

This time, there were twin sounds of outrage from the two youngest men, and Aramis clenched his jaw until he thought his teeth might crack. It was a good thing that the man did not allow them to delude themselves regarding Porthos' condition, he knew, but that did it not make easier to hear.

He was a bit surprised that the doctor did not want to bleed Porthos; it was what most doctors did with fevers, in his experience. He never knew what to think of the practice – on the one hand, he knew that blood loss lowered the body temperature. He had seen it often enough in men on the battlefield who started to shiver uncontrollably, their teeth clacking together, even if it was in the middle of summer. But it came at a price, weakness, confusion and loss of consciousness, and too many of them slipping away quietly … And Porthos was sanguine, so it couldn't be good to deprive him of the humour that gave him strength when he already had so little left. So even if he was apprehensive about the bath, he was glad of the suggestion.

“Alright,” the medic finally said, “thank you, doctor.” He turned towards Athos, opening his mouth to speak, but their leader was already striding towards the door with purpose. “I'll ask the innkeeper for ice and a tub,” he said, “you make everything ready here.” Aramis closed his mouth again and smiled at his friend, thankful for his quick acting and easy way to issue commands.

“But it's the middle of the night!” Fadil protested.

d'Artagnan threw a sharp glance at him. “Who cares?” he replied, his voice cutting. “You've heard it, we can't wait because soon, it could be too late!” His voice wavered and threatened to break on the last words. Aramis reached out and placed a hand on the young Gascon's shoulder, and d'Artagnan covered it with his, their eyes meeting for a moment.

Fadil looked away, chastised, and murmured something in an apologetic tone. d'Artagnan gave him a short, subdued smile and a nod, not really angry at the man anyway, but exhaustion and worry were putting all of them on edge.

Aramis indicated to d'Artagnan to take care of freeing a spot on the floor for the bathtub while he went to speak with the doctor to ask about other suggestions the man might have, in particular regarding a poultice or similar to draw out the infection that was firmly entrenched in the whip marks on Porthos' back, refusing to leave him.

Athos returned a few minutes later, followed by two servants carrying a large bathtub. His grim expression made Aramis' heart seize with foreboding – was there more bad luck coming, as it seemed to have been dogging them since Porthos had gone missing, starting with him being taken in the first place? He had to quickly remind himself that there had been good luck, too, like d'Artagnan finding the medallion and them getting to Porthos before the slavers or his injuries could take him from them forever. Even if the latter was still a possibility.

“No ice,” Athos reported curtly. “The innkeeper says one of his neighbours has a very deep well, and he's allowed to use it. It's not icy but a good deal colder than the water from the inn's well.”

Aramis sighed, torn between relief and concern. That wasn't too bad – he had still been worried about the ice bath being too much of a shock for Porthos' weakened body. They had to hope it was enough.

One of the servants, a man with a grizzled head and beard but still built like an oak, sturdy and strong, stepped forward after he and his companion had deposited their load. “We'll take you there and help you carry as much water as you need,” he said.

Athos nodded at him in thanks. “Alright. d'Artagnan, Marcel, with me. Aramis, Fadil, make Porthos ready so we can get him in there as soon as the tub is full.”

Aramis nodded, then sighed wearily and scrubbed a hand through his curls as Athos and the two young men filed out behind the servants. He turned to Fadil and said quietly: “Let's get this done.”

Together, they made quick work of it, so by the time the others returned, each man carrying two large buckets filled to the brim, they were ready. The tub was filled up, and Aramis closed his fingers around his crucifix, whispering a short prayer and kissing the golden cross, before straightening and exchanging a look and a nod with Athos and d'Artagnan. It was time to do this.

Getting Porthos' unresponsive body into the tub took all their strength, more emotionally so than physically. They did not speak but Aramis saw the lines of worry in his brothers' faces, the way Athos' nostrils flared as he wrestled with his emotions, how d'Artagnan was nearly biting through his lip. Fadil and Marcel kept a respectful distance, though they stayed near, willing to lend a hand if needed. The Moor, in particular, was good at understanding when the three of them needed to be the ones to care for their brother and when they were willing to accept their help, and Aramis had been thankful for it over the last few days. The doctor kept back, too, but his sharp eyes followed the process carefully.

The moment the cold water closed over Porthos' body, he came alive, struggling in their hold. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused, unseeing, and Aramis ached at the sight of these dark caves full of fear where Porthos' warmth and humour were supposed to shine. A moan escaped the ill man's lips, and he twisted in their grip, though it was frightfully easy to pin down the flailing limbs.

Aramis pressed a kiss to the dark curls, whispering calming words, even as each agonized sound Porthos made tore at him. And it got worse when he realised Porthos was speaking. “Jean.” The name in the raspy voice was a heartbroken plea. “Jean, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.” Porthos' face was screwed up in despair, dry sobs interrupting the slurred words. Aramis observed how his throat and eyelids were working, and it took him a moment until he recognised what was happening. Porthos was crying. He was crying but he didn't have enough moisture in his body to properly form tears. Aramis shared a stricken look with his brothers.

“Marcel,” was the next thing out of Porthos' mouth, and the young Mulatto hurried forwards, reaching for Porthos' hand as he knelt down next to the tub at d'Artagnan's side. “Marcel. He's gone. We lost him.”

Marcel's hand tightened around Porthos', and he leant forward. “I know,” he soothed, “I know. It's not your fault, Porthos.” Fadil had come up behind him and put his hands on the lad's shoulders in a supportive gesture.

Porthos' words soon descended into unintelligible muttering again, and he stopped struggling, but there was still that terrible, empty stare and the anguish on his face. Aramis ached with the need to take him into his arms, to wipe it all away, but he could do nothing but rub soothing circles on his shoulder, meaningless words of comfort spilling from his lips, until the doctor stepped forward and peered into Porthos' eyes, pressed his fingers to his neck and finally said: “Enough. Get him out and dried off before you return him to bed.”

They worked silently, laying him out on a blanket hastily laid down next to the tub and drying off every bit of skin. By the time the ailing man was back in the bed, only a thin blanket covering his by now shivering form, they were all exhausted. At least Porthos' features had smoothed out, and his eyes had slipped closed again. The physician checked him over and nodded. “I'll stay the night,” he told Athos, “and check him over again in the morning. Hopefully, his fever will have well and truly broken by then.”

“Thanks, doctor,” Athos said, accompanying him to the door. Marcel and Fadil trailed behind him to go sleep in what had become their room since the Musketeers all refused to leave the room even when forced to abandon Porthos' bedside for a few hours of much-needed sleep.

Athos returned to the bed and fell into the chair beside it, rubbing a hand over his face. “Anything we can still do, Aramis?” he asked the medic.

Aramis shook his head. “I'll just refresh the poultices and bandages, then we'll better let him rest until morning,” he replied.

“Alright,” d'Artagnan said with a tired sigh, “what do you need?” He brought over the med kit from the table and stood at Aramis' side, ready to lend a hand. The older Musketeer gave him a thankful look and handed him a few pieces of cloth. “You clean off the residue then as I remove the old bandages,” he instructed. They had left the bandages in place during the bath to protect the wounds, and the water had loosened them so they were easy to remove now. Aramis worked carefully, and d'Artagnan followed it up with gentle swipes over the exposed wounds, taking care not to disturb those that were finally starting to form scabs and close. By the time they were finished, Aramis looked up to find that Athos had set out his mortar and pestle, a bowl and a neat stack of fresh bandages. He gave his friend a surprised and thankful smile that had Athos roll his eyes fondly. “I do pay attention to how you do things, you know,” he remarked.

“I know,” the medic replied, “but I still appreciate it, my friend.”

Athos hummed his assent, and Aramis took pity on him, knowing how embarrassing his reserved brother found too much attention. He picked up his mortar and filled it with the herbs needed for the poultice. “I'll just finish this. You two go ahead and get some sleep already – it's late,” he told the other two Musketeers.

Athos nodded and got up to move to one of the pallets they had set out on the floor, loosening the clasps of his doublet as he went. “Wake me in three hours,” he demanded in a tone that brooked no argument. “d'Artagnan, you take the last shift.” The Gascon nodded easily as he followed his mentor's example, readying himself for bed.

Aramis considered arguing just briefly – his friends were exhausted and needed the rest – but one look at Athos' face made him discard the idea immediately. And he could not deny that he needed the rest as well. So he left it at a soft-spoken “Good night” and returned his attention to the mortar and pestle and the herbs he was crushing, adding some water to mix them into a thick paste. With gentle but well-practised movements, he spread the paste over the infected whip marks on Porthos' back, covering them with fresh bandages.

Finally, he sat back with a sigh while one of his hands lingered on his friend's bare shoulder and unconsciously rubbed circles on the dark skin. The shivering had abated again, and while Porthos' skin was still hot, Aramis thought it did not burn as much as before. For what felt like the first time in the last few days, he dared to take a deep breath – and to hope. He knew that all was not well – if Porthos' reaction in the bath was anything to go by, the experience had left his brother with wounds that went deeper than just the skin of his back. But as long as he lived, they would help him heal from it, like he and Athos had helped Aramis heal after Savoy, like they had helped d'Artagnan through losing his father, his farm and Constance, like they had helped Athos deal with his not-dead wife's treachery. As long as he lived …

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Porthos' forehead, then leant his own against it. “Please, Porthos,” he whispered, “come back to us. I miss you so much.” He blinked away a tear, surprised at himself, and wearily acknowledged that he was probably more tired than he'd thought, making him overly emotional. He sighed again and took another cloth, wetting it and placing it on Porthos' forehead, before he sat back and resigned himself to keeping his lonely vigil until it was time to wake Athos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally planned to go a bit further and include the doctor's check-up on the next day but this felt like the best spot to end this chapter. There's still a bit more to go... I hope you're appreciating these chapters focused more on care and less on action, too - I struggled with this one a bit, to be honest, but I thought it was important not to skip it.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and if you'd leave a comment or kudos, it would make my day!


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